


The Templar And The Blood Mage

by hollyand



Series: The Templar and the Blood Mage [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Characters Reading Fanfiction, Characters Writing Fanfiction, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forbidden Love, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, POV Multiple, Purple Hawke, Romance, Sarcastic Hawke, Sex Magic, Templar Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyand/pseuds/hollyand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver has finally managed (with Isabela's help) to get together with Merrill, after pining for the Dalish elf for years. Being a Templar, however, means he is forced to keep his relationship a secret — a fact that is not helped by the publication of a certain friend-fiction that becomes the Kirkwall version of "Fifty Shades of Grey"... </p><p>It's difficult enough keeping secrets when your brother has also got together with Kirkwall's most wanted apostate, and the city is disintegrating into chaos all around you. </p><p>Starts during Act 2 after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7859593/chapters/17947240">The Courtship of Daisy and Junior</a>, but also works as standalone. Carver/Merrill plus M!Hawke/Anders. Multiple characters' points of view. Also, this is really my excuse to write lots of smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'Together' Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we open with our hero and heroine, and some smut.

It sounded like something out of Varric’s steamier novels, but it wasn’t meant to be. Carver Hawke had been pining after Merrill for years, and now – with a little bit of help from Isabela, of course – they were together. Carver always avoided any questions in the Gallows about whether he had a ‘special lady’ or not – for him, for years, there had really only ever been one lady worth thinking about, only one lady he’d ever regarded as special. And quite aside from the problems of bringing up that the lady in question was one of his mage brother’s companions, the lady in question – a Dalish elf, no less, though Carver personally didn’t mind about that – was a mage.

But it wasn’t just the fact that she, like his brother, was an apostate that Carver – if he was doing his duty – should be capturing and turning in to the Circle, into the Gallows with the rest of the mages where they could be kept under full Templar supervision and control.

No. There was also the fact that she was a _blood mage_ , on top of everything bloody else. Here he was, Ser Carver, warrior and swordsman, Knight Corporal of the Templars in Kirkwall, striding through the alienage in full plate and armour to see Merrill – Dalish elf, former First to the Keeper of the Sabrae clan, blood mage. And it wasn’t her blood magic that had Carver in her thrall, oh no; it was _her_. Absolutely and entirely her. It had always been her. It always would be her.

He pushed away thoughts of what Knight Captain Cullen or Knight Commander Meredith would say to him if they found out if he was harbouring an apostate mage – a few, really, if you counted Garrett and Anders – or worse still, what they would actually _do_ to him if they ever found out his lover was a blood mage, and of Carver’s entirely free will, at that – not that Merrill would use her blood magic to control his mind or Garrett’s, he was sure of that. He had made his choice, and was being discreet, and she knew the risks as much as he did. There was no going back now, although if Carver were to be honest, there was no way he – after pining for her for the best part of the last few years – would want to go back now.

He knocked on her door.

‘Merrill, it’s me.’

Even though they were now firmly dating, it didn’t stop Carver being nervous that she wouldn’t open that door to him. He idly twirled the large daisy he’d brought for her in his hand while he waited. Fortunately, he didn’t need to wait long; the door opened and Carver slid inside, closing it firmly behind him.

‘Hey,’ he said, smiling shyly at her.

‘ _Ma vhenan_ ,’ Merrill breathed, in that singsong Dalish accent he loved so much. Carver slipped his gauntleted arms around her; the metal of his armour made his already brawny arms and torso so much bulkier than they already were, and next to his clumsy metal plate she was so small, so slight. Cradling her gently so as not to crush her thin petite frame against the full weight of the metal plate, Carver kissed her dark hair, breathing in its scent.

‘Mmmmm,’ Merrill hummed happily, her face pressed against his breastplate, where the flaming sword of the Chantry etched on it represented every reason why he shouldn’t be here. ‘I do love a man in uniform.’

Carver laughed, and held her back slightly so he could look at her face. ‘You’ve been spending time with Isabela again, haven’t you?’

‘Well, maybe,’ said Merrill, her wide, forest green eyes sparkling at him, ‘but you do look so handsome in your Templar armour, _ma vhenan_. Though I think you look handsome anyway,’ she added cheerfully, ‘and I do so enjoy looking forward to seeing you.’

‘Me too,’ Carver said, smiling. ‘Here. I got this for you.’ He held the daisy towards her, and she took it, smiling herself, blushing slightly; cheeks going a lovely shade of pink under the delicate vallaslin across her pale face, like pencil on porcelain. She was beautiful, thought Carver, and he was a very lucky man.

‘ _Ma serannas_ ,’ she breathed. ‘Thank you, Carver. It’s very pretty.’

She tiptoed to kiss him on the cheek, which instantly went hot under the soft touch of her lips, and set the daisy down next to a small table by the door, which had a wooden halla carving on it. The halla carving had been a gift from Garrett, Merrill had told him the last time he was here; Carver had felt a pang of jealousy that his brother had given her something she proudly displayed so prominently in her own home, but Merrill had pointed out that she thought it was a very nice carving and a thoughtful gift from a good friend, and saw no reason to get rid of it, so it was staying. Besides, Garrett was gay. And with Anders, anyway.

‘Now,’ she said, turning back to him with a grin on her face, ‘let’s see you out of that armour, shall we?’

Carver smirked at her. He pulled off his metal gloves, his blue eyes on her green ones all the way, burning, yearning. For her part, she was standing back from him, her arms crossed, a smirk on her own face, watching him. Watching him strip for her. He removed his shoulder plates, the corrugated metal – almost spiky, really – clattering to the ground; his flaming sword breastplate followed shortly after. He continued to keep his eyes on hers, still smirking, still watching her, watching her as she watched him. He stepped away from his armour lying on the wooden floor, and removed his gauntlets, watching her as he unbuckled the straps, letting them fall to the ground, pulling his shirt and vest over his head, flinging it towards the floor as well. A small noise came from Merrill’s throat at the sight of his broad, muscled, bare chest. His smirk grew even broader, unmistakable in its intent. He undid and flung off his skirts in a similar fashion, and now in his underclothes, started to walk over to where she stood with her mouth slightly open in desire, his eyes still burning into hers, and took both her hands in his, rubbing his thumbs lightly over the thin scars.

‘Happy now?’

She nodded.

‘ _Ma serannas_ ,’ she said, breathlessly. She lifted her hands from his, and smoothed them over his pectorals and biceps in wonder and awe. ‘Creators, you’re beautiful.’

‘So are you.’ He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips. She jumped up on tiptoe to reach him, and flung her arms around his neck; Carver responded by crushing her body to his, free to do so now he no longer had his heavy metal armour on, and kissed her again, deeper this time, her mouth yielding to his, their tongues touching, tasting, exploring each other, and oh Maker, it felt so good. _She_ felt so good. She tasted so good, and Carver wanted her, wanted all of her. Her small breasts pressed into his chest through the rough green tunic she was wearing, and Carver held her closer, held her tight, reluctant to let her go even though he was burning, his body was on fire. 

Their lips broke apart, and, panting, Carver touched her forehead to hers.

‘I love you, Merrill,’ he panted, and it didn’t feel like it would be enough. ‘Maker, but I love you.’

‘I love you too, Carver,’ she said, equally dazed, still catching breath herself. She reached up to kiss him again, and Carver drank her in again as if he would die of thirst without her. She was dragging him backwards while her mouth was on his, and Carver, desperate, _wanting_ , hard, followed her all the way until they both fell onto the bed. Carver loomed over her, still kissing her, and propped himself on his elbows and knees while Merrill tugged at his smallclothes, the front of them caught on his erection. He stopped briefly to squirm out of them, groaning in relief as his cock sprang free; he fell back onto the bed on his side while Merrill wrapped herself around him, his erect length slapping against her clothed thigh.

‘Your turn,’ he panted, sitting up with her; she released himself from his arms and stumbled off the bed. When she had righted herself into a standing position, Carver leaned forward, resting his elbows onto his knees for a better view. ‘Strip for me.’ 

Giggling, Merrill slid off her scarf, and proceeded to do the same with her tunic, sleeves, and leggings. She wasn’t particularly slow, or seductive, or teasing about it – not like the prostitutes at the Blooming Rose used to strip for him, years ago – but Carver appreciated it anyway, this giggly jerky striptease she was doing for him. He just loved seeing her move, really; loved seeing _her_. And he could tell she knew he loved watching her, and now she was purposefully slowing down her movements for him, revelling in his hungry gaze, revelling in his bare cock stretching out towards her as he watched. He swallowed hard when she was down to her black and gold Dalish undergarment; it reminded him of a corset, though it was clearly not as tight or painful-looking. Not that she needed a corset – the undergarment hugged her curves in all the right places. 

Then she was standing fully naked before him. Carver licked his lips, and Merrill blushed and giggled a little. He reached out and pulled her towards him.

‘You’re gorgeous,’ he told her in an awed voice, as he pulled her into his lap and nuzzled her pointed ears.

‘You’re not so bad yourself, Ser Carver,’ she replied, blushing a little more. She slipped off his lap and onto the bed, and Carver followed, kneeling between her open legs, taking in the sight of her, naked, on the bed. His eyes followed his hands travelling hungrily over her body, touching her face, her breasts, her belly, down to her thighs – whatever he could reach. She sighed happily, watching him watching her. Carver smiled back at her; it had taken them a while to get to this point, to get to the point where the sheer size of him in comparison to her didn’t terrify her – but Carver had always tried to be gentle with her, always tried to take things at her own pace, always been so anxious for her to be completely happy and comfortable with him, that she’d stopped being so anxious about him herself.

The others might say Carver was a tit, and Carver might be grumpy and surly with them, but he’d always been sweet on Merrill. And the bedroom was no exception to that. 

And speaking of tits… Carver bent down to kiss and lick her nipples, first the right one, then the left, swirling his tongue around each of them after a soft kiss. She squeaked and wriggled a little in pleasure, and brought her hand up to run through his dark hair. He looked up at her.

‘Liked that, did you?’

She giggled and nodded. Carver put his head back down and lapped at her breasts again, moving lower, running his tongue along her smooth belly, kissing a spot just above her belly button, worshipping every inch of skin he could. He moved his lips and tongue lower, lower, until he reached her pussy – until he met Merrill, Carver hadn’t known elves were completely hairless everywhere – where he swiped her tongue over her clit, making Merrill gasp. She smelt faintly of spices down there, he thought, running his lips and tongue over her labia, circling her clit, teasing her, making her moan, until he eventually sunk his tongue into her soft wet pussy, his hands around her hips and buttocks to hold her in place. Merrill moaned something in Dalish Carver couldn’t understand, but he carried on, tonguing her inside and out, feeling her quiver – whether in nervousness or pleasure, or possibly both, Carver couldn’t tell – but Maker, he loved this, loved tasting her, feeling and hearing her moans and sighs, feeling her getting all wet for him, hearing her calling his name. Carver moved one hand from her hips to underneath her so that he could slide his thumb into her pussy as he tickled her clit with his tongue for a bit, then moved back to her entrance where his thumb had been. His erect cock strained with his own excitement, but Carver told himself he could wait. As far as Carver was concerned, Merrill would always come first.

And, just like a promise fulfilled, she did. Merrill came – hard, if her body was any indication – her thighs clamping around him, pressing his ears flat against his head, while she moaned and cried out her pleasure above him, her pussy contracting and releasing around his tongue, which Carver held as still as he could as she rode out her orgasm. When he was satisfied that she was completely sated, Carver emerged from between her legs, her wetness all over his lips and chin and jaw. 

‘Good?’

She nodded, breathing heavily, still smiling. ‘That was amazing, _ma vhenan_. Just give me a minute, and I’ll take care of you.’

Carver moved to lie on the bed next to her, revelling in her praise, pride swelling his chest. He licked his lips, savouring the taste of her on his face, the telltale sign of her pleasure. He turned his head to kiss her, but was surprised that she had already sprung away – and was now on top of him, straddling him over his thighs. She had that sly look in her eye that told him she was definitely rearing to go.

‘Hmmm, I can tell you’re ready,’ she chirped, looking at his erect, weeping cock. She took it into her tiny hands, running her thumb over the head, a fond expression on her face.

‘I’ve been ready for you for a while, love,’ he said, feeling the colour rise in his cheeks.

‘I know,’ she answered. She bent down and kissed it, giving it one last, fond look before moving her body up his, lining her hips up with his, and sinking herself slowly, ever so slowly, onto his cock. Even through a haze of lust and desire, Carver watched her face with concern, searching her features for any sign of discomfort – humans were much bigger than elves in pretty much every department, and the last thing he wanted was to cause her pain. She screwed up her nose in concentration as she sunk down, impaling herself on his shaft, but then her expression smoothed, and she smiled beatifically at him.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

She nodded.

Carver thrust into her gently, his hands on her hips to steady her. She leaned forward and placed her own hands around his strong, big arms, gazing at them admiringly; for Carver’s part, he simply admired the view. She was so wet and tight and hot, and it was everything he needed as well as everything he wanted. She moved her hips in time with his, undulating along with his thrusts, her little breasts wobbling ever so slightly; and Carver, gaining confidence, relaxing in the knowledge that he wouldn’t be hurting her, thrust harder, enjoying the sensations of her on him, enjoying having him inside her. He closed his eyes, thinking of his cum inside her pussy, and his own milky ooze seeping out of her wet elven slit. It drove him wild with desire, and he wanted nothing more than to fill her cunt up, fill her pussy with so much cum it would ooze out of her for days. He shouted and thrust harder, his eyes flying open to look at her; she was bouncing on top of him with a look of pure ecstasy on her face, and he knew he drove her crazy as much as she drove him crazy. Her eyes were on his flushed and sweaty chest, her own chest was shining with sweat, rising and falling rapidly with her gasps, and she was so beautiful Carver couldn’t stand it; he fucked her, hard. He came with a shout, pushing her down hard on him, thrusting deep into her pussy as he spurted. A little cry of ‘oh, Carver!’ escaped Merrill’s lips, and he thrust again and again, cock filling up her pussy with his hot wet cum until he was finally spent, and Merrill collapsed forward onto his chest. They lay like that, exhausted, sweaty, panting, unable to move or talk, until Carver's gradually softening cock eventually slid out of her pussy.

Eventually, Merrill rolled off him, lying on her side, her body flush against the flank of his torso, propping her head up on one skinny elbow to look at him.

‘Carver,’ she lilted happily. ‘That was beau-ti-ful.’

Carver, feeling happy but slightly sleepy, silently put his arms around her. He just wanted to hold her for a bit, to hold onto this feeling, the post-coital afterglow he shared with the woman he adored. To the outside world, they might be a templar and a blood mage, a human and an elf; but in this room, here and now, they were just Carver and Merrill, a man and a woman in love. 

Merrill obliged him for a bit, but it seemed she had other ideas, wriggling out of his arms and sitting bolt upright by his head.

‘Although I don’t know if it’s a human thing,’ she carried on, as if they hadn’t just lain in silence in each other’s arms for a while, ‘but I am absolutely soaked down there. Look, Carver,’ and she turned to face her groin at him, which, Carver noted with satisfaction, was thick with white cum, ‘it’s just gushing out of me. How do you humans just produce so much?’

Carver chuckled. ‘I don’t know, Merrill. I’m not sorry for making a mess of your pussy, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Oh, no, not at all, _ma vhenan_ ,’ she said, ‘it’s just so – so – so gloopy! And so much of it! _Elgar’nan_ ,’ she scooped up a runny blob of it on her index and middle fingers and examined it, ‘I know you’re a big man, Carver, but where do you store all this stuff?’ 

Carver wasn’t sure what to say to that. ‘I – I don’t know, Merrill. Maybe some of us produce more than others?’ He felt himself blush, nervous now. ‘Is it – is it a bad thing?’

Merrill cocked her head, seemingly considering something else. She licked her fingers, a thoughtful expression on her face; even though they’d just fucked, Carver found himself going even redder at the gesture.

‘Erm… how do I taste?’ he blurted out.

Merrill nodded, sucking her fingers. ‘Good,’ she chirped, once she took her fingers out of her mouth. ‘I like it.’ Then she looked at him, and upon noticing his red face and ears, her face took on an expression of concern. ‘Oh, _ma vhenan_ , I’m so sorry,’ she began, ‘I said something wrong again, haven’t I?’

‘No! No,’ he stuttered, feeling like he was nineteen years old again and tongue-tied in her company as usual. ‘You’ve said nothing wrong.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Oh! Right,’ she laughed. ‘That’s good.’

Carver, relaxing again, just smiled at her.

‘And this time I definitely haven’t missed something dirty, because we’ve just spent an afternoon doing dirty things.’

Carver laughed. ‘Yes, we’ve definitely been doing dirty things.’

‘I like doing dirty things with you very much, Carver.’

‘We can do them as often as you want, Merrill.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘Me too.’

Merrill jumped off the bed, leaving a slight cum trail behind her. When she turned around, she had a slightly worried look on her face.

‘Carver, _ma vhenan_ –’

‘What is it?’ Carver sat up.

Merrill twisted her hands in front of her breasts nervously, and took a deep breath. She looked a little afraid – maybe it was just nerves.

‘I know you – you probably won’t like this, so – don’t feel you have to say yes!’ she said, holding her hands up as if in protest, ‘– but I had been wondering,’ she went on, slowly, unsteadily, tentatively, ‘if – maybe one day – I could use magic in bed.’

Carver stared at her.

‘Not blood magic!’ she exclaimed. ‘Nothing dangerous, and nothing that will hurt you, I promise. It’s just that – Isabela said – she met Anders at some place called The Pearl in Denerim, and – well, there are things mages can do in bed apparently…’

‘Merrill.’ Carver exhaled, with a shaky laugh, partly out of relief and understanding, but partly to interrupt her before she could plant an image in his head of Anders and Isabela together. ‘Why would I not like it?’

Merrill looked at him as if he was stupid. ‘Because you’re a templar,’ she answered, and Carver really wished in that instant that he wasn’t, just so he could see the worried frown disappear from her face. ‘Because you’re a templar and magic is – well, templars are not supposed to like magic very much, are they?’

‘Templars are not supposed to hide the existence of apostate brothers and girlfriends either,’ Carver told her, ‘let alone willingly sleep with blood mages. It’s not as if I haven’t known all this time that you’re a mage, Merrill.’

Merrill relaxed again. ‘So – so you’d be OK with it?’

Carver considered it. 

‘If Isabela says it’s worth trying, and I suppose as long as it’s safe, and not something the others will feel on me later back in the Gallows, then –’ He sat up straight. _Maker_ , he thought, _but why is she always so impossible for me to say no to, on anything?_ He took a deep breath again.

‘All right, Merrill. If that’s what you want. I trust you.’

Merrill smiled, relieved, and sidled her naked form into his lap. Carver automatically lifted his arms and put them around her; he could never resist an opportunity to touch or caress her – Maker knew there was so little opportunity to do so out and about in Kirkwall, with both of them being what they were – and leaned in to trace the vallaslin on her cheekbones with his lips.

‘Thank you, _ma sa'lath_ ,’ she whispered, leaning in to his body, nestling her face against the touch of his lips. ‘I won’t do anything you don’t feel uncomfortable with, I promise.’ She suddenly sat up straight, and clapped her hands. ‘I’ll ask Anders if he knows any dirty spells!’


	2. A Novel Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Merrill meets Varric and Isabela at the Hanged Man after, is joined by Hawke and Anders, and finds out that - sometimes - 'art imitates life'.

‘So, Kitten. How’s Carver?’

Merrill turned to Isabela, a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes, and Isabela felt a stab of pride and satisfaction at having set them up in the first place. Not that she hadn’t had her worries, of course: she’d even expressly told Carver, in no uncertain terms, that if he ever dared hurt Merrill, she’d chop his balls off. She meant it, too. Judging by the way he paled, he knew she meant it.

But judging by the happy expression on Merrill’s face at the mention of the younger Hawke’s name, Isabela didn’t need to worry about castrating anyone for the time being.

‘Oh, Isabela,’ Merrill sighed. ‘He’s so big and strong, and handsome, and sexy. He’s _amazing_. And did I mention he’s so strong, and handsome?’

‘You did, Merrill,’ Isabela said. It was obvious Kitten was smitten, no doubt about it. Isabela could only hope that Carver was worth what the little elf felt for him. But there was something more pressing Isabela wanted to ask. ‘I came to call by the alienage today, and I saw him leaving your house.’

‘Yes.’ Merrill nodded happily. ‘He stayed over last night.’

‘And?’ Isabela prompted.

Merrill giggled. ‘Stop it, Isabela.’

‘Come on, Kitten. You know you can tell Aunty Isabela. I won’t judge you on anything you tell me. Promise.’

‘Oh, Isabela,’ Merrill sighed again, then bounced in her seat and squealed, clapping her hands. ‘He’s amazing! It was amazing! And it felt _so_ good. We did lots of dirty things to each other, and I didn’t miss _anything_!’

‘Oooooh, saucy.’ Isabela grinned. ‘Come on, Kitten. Spill the beans, and don’t leave out _any_ of the details.’

Varric walked back into the suite then, with three beer tankards. ‘Here you go, Rivaini,’ he said, laying one of the beers on the table in front of Isabela, ‘and for you, Daisy,’ he placed the other in front of Merrill and placed the remaining one in front of his throne-like seat, which he hopped into. ‘So. What have I missed?’

‘Carver stayed over at Merrill’s last night,’ answered Isabela in her smooth, velvet tones, swinging her leather thigh-high boots up onto the table, resting one foot on top of the other.

‘Wait.’ Varric’s hand, holding his beer mug, stopped dead halfway between table and mouth. ‘Junior did _what?_ ’

‘Stayed over at Merrill’s. They _are_ dating, you know.’

‘Oh, I know that,’ Varric coughed, ‘or at least, I knew Junior and Daisy had been going on a couple of – er – very discreet dates.’ He raised his eyebrow at Merrill, who felt her face going hot.

‘Well, what’s wrong with Carver staying over at mine?’

‘Daisy.’ Varric settled his beer tankard down on the table. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Carver’s not just some little boy with a crush on you, anymore. He’s a templar.’

‘I’m not stupid, Varric.’ Merrill’s face burned. ‘We know the risks.’

‘I hope you do, Daisy. I’m just hoping neither of you get caught. Because if he does, I don’t know if even me pulling all the strings I’ve got, or Hawke throwing all the money he can at Knight-Commander Meredith, can keep him out of trouble. You as well.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport, Varric,’ Isabela interrupted, noticing how crushed her friend looked. ‘Carver’s been mooning after her for years, and from what I can see, he makes Kitten here very happy.’

‘Hey, I’m not denying that.’ Varric raised his hands in protest. ‘I think the whole templars versus mages thing in this city is stoopid anyway - I've got some good friends in the Circle and some good drinking buddies in the templars - so personally, I’m sick of it. But that doesn’t mean other people are, in this crazy goddamn city. All I’m saying, Daisy, and I suppose I’ll say it to Junior as well, is this: be careful.’

‘I know what I’m doing, Varric,’ Merrill said, through gritted teeth. ‘I just wish everyone wouldn’t talk to me like I’m a child all the time. At least Carver treats me like a woman.’

‘Then I’m sorry, Daisy,’ Varric said amiably. ‘I’m just concerned, that’s all, and maybe a bit overprotective with all the crazy happenings in this crazy city of late. Besides, I think you and Little Hawke are very sweet together.’

Merrill looked up. ‘You do, Varric?’

‘I do, Daisy. Ancestors know we could all use a bit of sweetness right now.’           

Speaking of sweetness,’ Isabela said, a sly smile playing around her lips, ‘what _is_ Ser Carver like in bed? We were just about to get to that, when we were rudely interrupted by Varric.’

Varric spluttered into his beer. ‘Stop right there, Rivaini. I am not having you use Daisy and Junior in your friend fiction.’

Before Merrill could respond, Isabela was huffing, hands on hips. ‘The sheer cheek of it, dwarf!’ she cried in mock outrage. ‘You’re just afraid it’d be better than yours! As if your new serial isn’t already based on Carver and Merrill as it is!’

‘Wait,’ Merrill started. ‘What serial? Are you writing a new novel, Varric? Can I read it?’

‘It’s nothing you need worry about, Daisy,’ Varric replied airily, waving his hand in dismissal, but Isabela snorted.

‘Oh, really, Varric,’ she laughed. ‘Who else can “The Templar and the Blood Mage” be based on? Not the real-life templar in a relationship with a blood mage, perchance?’

Varric shrugged. ‘A... common fantasy among the templars of the Gallows? I hear the serialisation is proving very popular over there. Must be all that repression.’

‘Varric,’ Merrill was stunned, ‘is this true?’

‘Daisy, please don’t worry about it,’ Varric assured her.

‘But Varric, what if people figure out it’s about Carver and me?’ Merrill asked. ‘Wouldn’t that put us in danger?’

‘They shouldn’t,’ Varric heaved a sigh, golden hairy chest rising and falling, ‘as long as you two are careful.’

Silence fell on the table then. Isabela took a swig of her drink, followed by Varric. Merrill continued to stare down at her beer, which was still untouched.

It was Varric who spoke again.

‘I do, though, think you should let Hawke know.’

‘No!’ Merrill cried.

‘Yes,’ insisted Varric. ‘I will do all I can for you both, I promise you that, but I can only do so much, Merrill. If you and Carver are going to continue this relationship – and I’ve no doubt it’s worth the risks you’re putting yourselves through – both of you need will Hawke’s protection and discretion, whether you like it or not.’

‘From the glow on Kitten’s face, Varric, I’ve no doubt the sex is worth the risks they’re putting themselves through,’ grinned Isabela, as Varric groaned and buried his face in his hands.

‘I didn’t want to hear that,’ he grumbled.

‘You have no choice, Varric – you’re the one who’s writing their love story. Come on, you’ll need the material,’ Isabela smirked, turning back to Merrill. ‘So, Merrill. Carver’s amazing in bed, is he?’

Merrill nodded enthusiastically. ‘He is. He can do this thing with his tongue on me down there –’ Merrill pointed between her legs, and Isabela nodded approvingly, ‘and then I rode him on top, and it was wonderful, and he’s just so _big_ everywhere; and I mean _everywhere_ , but he was really careful to take his time with me, and – oh, by the way, Isabela, is it normal for human men to produce so much…?’

‘So much what, Kitten?’

Merrill blushed. ‘You know. _Fluid_ ,’ she whispered darkly, as Isabela tittered.

Varric held up his hands. ‘Daisy,’ he said, laughingly, ‘I am happy to write you and Junior a beautiful love scene in the next part of the serial, but I think we’re straying dangerously into “too much information on top of what’s already too much information” territory.’

‘Varric!’ Merrill was scandalised. ‘You’ve been mirroring our relationship event for event in your novel?’

‘Well, there’s been a few... embellishments,’ Varric coughed again, ‘but really, the stories Isabela was telling me about your coy and awkward flirtations and dates were absolutely inspiring. Who could fail to be uplifted by a beautiful love story between a strong handsome templar and his beautiful elven blood mage?’

‘Well, I know one person,’ murmured Isabela, as Anders strode into the suite, with Garrett Hawke hot on his heels, beer mug in one hand, and a glass of water for Anders in the other. Anders scowled at Merrill, as usual, and nodded curtly to the others in greeting.

‘Varric. Isabela.’

‘Merrill,’ Hawke’s voice was warm and genuine. ‘Good to see you. How are you?’ He shot a look at Anders, as if to scold his lover for his rudeness, but Anders merely rolled his eyes.

‘Fine, Hawke.’ Merrill’s voice was tight.

‘Everything OK?’ Hawke’s face creased in concern.

Merrill nodded. ‘Fine.’ She was always so nervous around Hawke – she’d always been nervous around both the Hawke brothers, really, they were both so strong and powerful and intimidating – but Hawke was always so commanding, even though he’d always been very kind to her; on more than one occasion she had wondered aloud that if Hawke had been an elf, perhaps the elvhen would have been powerful once more, rather than in the scattered, fragmented, lost state they were in now. Merrill hadn’t expected the first _shemlen_ she’d ever met to treat her with politeness and respect, especially after all the stories she’d been told about them. Like his brother, Hawke didn’t agree with Merrill’s use of blood magic, but he never took her to task over it; both Hawkes over the years had been good friends of hers. Even if Hawke had now shacked up with Anders, of whom Merrill was never quite sure if he disapproved of her or if he just had a funny way of showing his concern. _Shemlen_. Even after so many years of being around them, even after taking Carver as her lover, Merrill still wasn’t sure she could entirely make them out.

Even Carver had still managed to confuse her from time to time. She smiled to herself, a furtive thing, blushing as she remembered his strong hands on her body, his magnificent cock in her pussy, the way he stripped off his Templar armour, bit by bit, eyes burning into hers with heat and lust, smirk playing over his face, all for her…

‘What are you smiling about?’

Merrill looked up with a squeak, almost jumping out of her seat in embarrassment. Anders was scowling at her; his voice had been harsh and suspicious. Hawke looked between them, his expression tense.

‘Anders,’ he muttered, ‘don’t…’

‘All right, Blondie,’ Varric cut in smoothly. ‘Why don’t you have a drink and tell us what’s up, now.’

Anders growled. ‘Templars.’

Merrill went cold.

Hawke sighed, and took a sip from his beer mug. ‘ _Not_ templars, love,’ he said, and Merrill had never noticed how exhausted Hawke looked before. He rubbed his beard absently. ‘My little brother decided to pay Mother a visit, that’s all.’

‘He’d come to arrest me,’ Anders insisted. ‘He might be your brother, Hawke, but he’s a templar now. He’s got his duties to the Order.’

Hawke sighed again. ‘Anders, love,’ he began, and – was Hawke actually pleading with him? Merrill wondered – ‘he really _has_ only stopped by to pay Mother a visit. Before he heads back to that prison he calls a home now.’

‘He was there yesterday,’ Anders growled, ‘and Leandra even told him to stay, but he said he couldn’t stay long and went. How was I to know that he was going to turn up again today, smelling of the bloody alienage?’

Merrill let out a tiny squeak at that point; fortunately Anders didn’t hear her over his ranting, but by the glance Isabela and Varric exchanged with each other they certainly did. Merrill clumsily buried her face in her large beer mug to cover her flushing cheeks, drawing in a long mouthful of beer, and promptly spluttering it out.

‘Urgh,’ she said, distracted enough by the foul taste of the Hanged Man’s beer to regain her composure. ‘I don’t think I will ever get used to this stuff.’

‘Anders,’ Hawke said to him, ignoring Merrill. ‘Carver is not going to arrest you. I won’t let that happen. He has every right to visit Mother if he wants, and we… we can just make ourselves scarce.’

‘How the hell am I supposed to make myself scarce if he turns up two days in a row without warning?’

‘Look,’ Hawke started. ‘My little brother might be a tit, but Mother worries about him, and it makes her happy to see him on his day off.’

Anders snorted. ‘ _Days_ off, you mean. What was he doing during the night last night then, between his visits to Leandra? Where had he disappeared off to, between yesterday and today? Prowling the alienage, rounding up mages for arrest no doubt. You should have seen him, Hawke. He was positively _glowing_ this morning. Pride in a job well done, I expect.’

Isabela and Varric both snorted into their beers. Anders raised an eyebrow.

‘Have I said something funny?’

Nobody at the table answered immediately. Merrill buried her face in her beer mug again, grimacing at the foul, fizzy taste of the beer; she forced herself to swallow it, and promptly had a coughing fit. Still sniggering, Isabela slid over Anders’s glass of water, which Merrill took gratefully, gulping it down. Anders glared at her.

‘Do you know if we can expect the others today?’ Varric asked, his expression now smooth.

Hawke shrugged. ‘Don’t know,’ he said, taking a swig of his beer.

‘Aw, I’m disappointed,’ Isabela clucked. ‘We don’t even know if Fenris is coming? I’d be so disappointed not to see that hunk of gorgeous elf brooding at all of us tonight.’

‘I’ve no idea what his plans are, actually,’ Hawke admitted. ‘I forgot to ask him. He came over to the estate last night – still teaching him how to read.’

‘What are you teaching him?’ asked Varric.

‘Oh, nothing complicated. Still on very simple stories at the moment.’

Isabela tossed her hair back. ‘Maybe I should join you in teaching him,’ she said with a smirk, winking at Varric and Merrill. ‘I could read him the latest Tethras romance serial.’

‘Oh no,’ moaned Anders. ‘Not “The Templar and the Blood Mage”. Anything but that.’

Staring down into her drink, Merrill silently agreed.

‘Well, I never figured you for the type, Blondie,’ Varric said good-humouredly, settling back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. ‘You don’t like it?’

‘Anders loves it,’ said Hawke with a fond snigger. ‘He’ll never admit it, but he’s _obsessed_ with it. He even got me to read it just so I knew exactly what he was ranting and raving about.’

‘It’s not _real_ ,’ Anders retorted sourly, glaring at his lover for exposing his secret. ‘I mean, a Kirkwall templar and a blood mage. That’s definitely not realistic. It’s just a bit of – romantic escapism, when I need time away from writing my manifesto.’

‘Perhaps I should be worried,’ Hawke teased, his eyes sparkling. ‘I never figured you for the type either. There aren’t any hidden desires you have to take a templar lover, are there?’ He stroked the other mage’s blond hair reassuringly, but Anders still scowled at him.

‘Hawke. Seriously?’

‘I am teasing you,’ laughed Hawke, continuing to stroke his lover’s hair. ‘I know there’s more chance of me willingly becoming a Kirkwall templar than of you willingly fucking one.’

Anders shuddered. ‘No mage in their right mind would willingly fuck a templar.’

Merrill stood up. ‘I – I really should go,’ she said, weakly, but Isabela pulled her back in her seat.

‘Sit down, Kitten,’ she said. ‘Finish your beer – it’ll do you good.’ She winked at her, and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘It’ll make this easier, I promise.’

Merrill stared miserably into her beer. She honestly didn’t see how.

‘So, my new novel gets the Blondie seal of approval, then,’ Varric carried on, smugly, ‘but not the Hawke one, correct?’

‘It’s a cheesy romance novel,’ laughed Hawke. ‘I’m sure it’s very good, Varric, but it’s really not my thing. Too cheesy even for me, I’m afraid.’

‘Ah, the king of the cheesy quips himself has declared my latest serial too cheesy for him. Really, Hawke, you wound me.’

‘Sorry Varric,’ Hawke’s grin matched that of the dwarf’s, ‘but as dashing as Ser Carrem is, and as sweet as his love for Revill is, I’m not sure –’

Merrill could finally stand it no more.

‘Varric,’ she said, her tone accusing and horrified, ‘you called them _Carrem_ and _Revill_?’

Varric shrugged. ‘What would you have preferred, Daisy?’

‘You haven’t read it, Merrill?’ Hawke asked, his tone interested.

Merrill’s cheeks burned. ‘No. No, I haven’t.’

‘I should think not,’ Hawke said, eyes sparkling, ‘I don’t think you’d like it very much. It’s ridiculously popular in the Gallows and the Mage Underground, though. Make of that what you will.’

‘Why would she not like it, Hawke?’ Isabela asked in a seemingly casual tone, far too casual to actually be casual.

Anders snorted. ‘Well, all the dirty parts would go completely over her head,’ he said. Merrill would have defended herself were it not for a more pressing panic that was rising inside her.

‘How do you know it’s popular in the Gallows?’ Merrill shrieked. Creators. Carver hadn’t said anything to her about this. Why hadn’t he?

Hawke just laughed.

‘Well, number one, it’s just a ridiculous fantasy,’ he grinned. ‘I mean, a blood mage and a templar. Whoever heard of such a thing? Mages in this city are doing everything they can to hide from the templars, not willingly run into their arms or invite them into their beds. Not even in the Gallows, where they’re practically forced to share a home with the metal-clad maniacs. Trust me, Merrill, you’ll just find it silly. Number two,’ he said, as Isabela opened her mouth to interrupt, ‘some – contacts – of Anders and mine have mentioned in passing about its popularity within both the Mage Underground and the Gallows.’

‘Did Junior tell you that?’ Varric enquired politely. Hawke guffawed with laughter, and even Anders managed a smirk.

‘No, no, not my brother. Maker knows Carver doesn’t read. Well, he might do occasionally, but he’s unlikely to look at any book that doesn’t have fighting in it,’ Hawke grinned, white teeth gleaming through his neatly trimmed dark beard, ‘or be interested in any hero that isn’t wielding a large sword.’

‘Well, Ser Carrem definitely wields a large _sword_ ,’ quipped Isabela, and she, Hawke and Varric laughed uproariously; even Anders tittered.

‘I don’t get it,’ mumbled Merrill, red-faced, at her beer.

‘Oh, Merrill,’ Isabela chortled, wiping her eyes, before she and Varric dissolved into peals of laughter once more.

‘Never mind, Merrill,’ Hawke reassured her, still grinning. ‘Just take it from me – it really isn’t worth your time. Well, Anders thinks the sex scenes are hot, even if he’ll never admit it –’

‘But that’s because they’re not real people,’ Anders insisted. ‘Whereas in real life, sex with a templar… Just _urgh_.’ Anders shuddered again.

‘So, Blondie, the sex scenes are hot because Ser Carrem and Revill aren’t based on real people,’ smirked Varric, while Isabela wiped tears of laughter from her eyes again.

‘I’m pretty sure sex with a templar would _never_ be hot. They’re too busy repressing and oppressing mages. And letting Revill use magic on him in bed? Way too far-fetched to happen in real life – even if you get past the whole templar-mage thing, let alone the templar-blood mage thing.’

Merrill thought she was going to faint.

‘She uses _magic_ on him _in bed_?’ she squeaked in horror, recalling Isabela’s suggestion that Merrill use her magic on Carver during sex – and Carver’s own nervous agreement to it just a few hours ago. ‘Varric, what _is_ this?’

‘Exactly,’ cut in Anders, oblivious to Merrill’s true feelings. ‘Would never happen. And Ser Carrem being the ever romantic, white knight in shining armour, who’d do anything for his mage? Well,’ snorted Anders, ‘the only way _that’s_ going to happen is if Revill has him under the influence of blood magic – which, frankly, even though she’s all sweet and innocent in the book, is totally unrealistic – in real life, blood mages always fall prey to demons or use them to do their bidding –’

‘No they don’t!’ shouted Merrill, her face hot.

Hawke put a hand on the blond mage’s shoulder. ‘Anders, not now –’

‘– and in real life, the only way a templar is having sex with _any_ mage, blood mage or not, is either if they visited Idunna at the Blooming Rose,’ Anders continued, not even pausing for breath, ‘or – if the templars rape them.’

Tears welled in Merrill’s eyes. She thought of Carver last night, in full templar regalia, slowly and sexily stripping it off, his blue eyes full of longing under his floppy dark fringe, all for her.

‘Not all templars are rapists,’ she countered in a small voice.

Isabela clucked sympathetically. ‘Kitten,’ she started, reaching out and rubbing Merrill’s shoulder comfortingly, ‘I’m pretty sure not all templars are rapists –’

But Anders was looking at her contemptuously.

‘Really, Merrill. Sometimes I can’t believe you can be that stupid.’

‘Stop it, Blondie,’ Varric cut in, voice harsh now. ‘I know you had a terrible time and saw some terrible things in the Fereldan Circle. I know Ser Alrik did some terrible things in the Kirkwall Circle. But even _you_ know the Tranquil Solution was not a Gallows-wide policy. Even _you_ know not every templar was following Alrik in abusing mages like that.’

‘They probably all knew about it,’ Anders replied haughtily. ‘Certainly my contact in the Gallows knew all about it.’

‘That doesn’t follow they were all in it, Blondie.’

‘Well, knowing about it and doing nothing about it pretty much amounts to being in on their abuse, in my mind.’

‘We don’t know that they _all_ knew about it, Blondie. And it certainly doesn’t follow that all templars rape mages.’

But Anders was looking straight at Merrill, as if he’d only just noticed her wiping her eyes, and Isabela whispering soothingly to her.

‘I’m not telling him,’ Merrill was whispering, voice urgent, stubborn.

‘Kitten. Varric’s right. You have to.’

Hawke spoke up. ‘Merrill, are you all right?’ His attention turned back to her, with the same expression of friendly concern he’d had on his face when he first walked in.

Merrill nodded, a mulish expression on her face. ‘Fine.’

‘I’m sorry about Anders. Just ignore him,’ Hawke shot another look at his lover, ‘he’s just had a bad time of late –’

‘I don’t know why _she’s_ crying,’ Anders snapped. ‘With _her_ stupidity, with _her_ blood magic, she’ll be the first one the templars will seek to destroy.’

‘That’s enough!’ Now it was Hawke’s turn to lose his patience. ‘Anders, love, that’s enough. We’ll talk about this when we get home.’ His voice was firm, commanding, and seemed to do the trick; Anders visibly deflated under the weight of his lover’s glare. ‘Right now, though, I think you owe Merrill an apology.’

‘Well, with your brother today reeking of the alienage,’ Anders muttered, ‘perhaps we should all be grateful Merrill’s still here to tell the tale, rather than learning that Carver dragged her to the Gallows for punishment.’

Merrill glared at him. ‘Carver wouldn’t,’ she rejoined, sniffling slightly.

‘He wouldn’t, sweet thing,’ Isabela soothed her, massaging her shoulder. ‘And if I’m wrong about him and he tries to, I’ll gut him myself. And break you out of there.’

Merrill smiled for the first time since Anders and Hawke had walked in. ‘You’d really do that?’ she asked, cheering up. ‘Oh, Isabela, you’re so brave. I could _never_ walk into the Gallows! Not unless I’m following Hawke, anyway. Not even to see C–’ She clamped a hand over her mouth, wide green eyes going even wider.

Hawke narrowed his eyes. ‘Call it a hunch, but I have a feeling I’m missing something here,’ he drawled. His tone was playful, but the questioning look in his eyes as they flittered between Merrill and Isabela said something else. _Answer me_ , they seemed to be saying; _What’s going on?_

Anders huffed.

‘The only thing you’re probably missing, Hawke, is the fact that Merrill seems to think devoted, handsome, _noble_ templars like Ser Carrem actually exist.’

‘Well, Blondie, maybe they do.’ Varric drained the last of his glass. ‘Maybe you should go get us another round,’ he said, tossing some coins his way. Anders frowned, but took the hint, and went to get another round of drinks.

Hawke watched him go, then turned back to Merrill and Isabela.

‘So.’ His eyes were still narrowed. ‘Anders seems convinced my brother was at the alienage last night. I have to say, I didn’t notice anything unusual, but Anders is pissing himself with paranoia over the whole thing. What happened? Did he try to arrest Merrill?’

‘Well,’ Varric began, watching the tears drying on Merrill’s face, ‘I wouldn’t put it like that, no…’

‘Merrill.’ Hawke moved over to them, knelt between her and Isabela, and placed a reassuring hand on her back. ‘Is it about Carver? Did he – did he hurt you?’

Hawke was surprised when Isabela burst out laughing.

‘Andraste’s granny panties, I hope not! Kitten, if he hurts you and you didn’t ask him to, then he’s doing it wrong.’

‘Isabela!’ Merrill cried, crestfallen.

‘Daisy,’ Varric patted her hand, ‘Hawke _has_ to know.’

‘What do I have to know?’

‘Hawke.’ Isabela leaned forward, a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. ‘Have you noticed anything, erm, unusual about your brother lately?’

Hawke chuckled. ‘Hardly. He’s still an arse.’

‘Really. Not even – perhaps – less of an arse than usual?’

Hawke thought about it. ‘Come to think of it, Mother says he’s definitely been more cheerful than usual. Well, until me or Anders enters the room. Then he goes back to being a surly little brat.’

‘He is _not_ a surly little brat.’ Merrill wheeled on him, eyes flashing. ‘I know your relationship was always strained, Hawke, but he hasn’t turned you or Anders in yet. Or me.’

‘Well, he’s not a surly little brat towards you,’ Hawke countered lightly, ‘but he’s always had a bit of a soft spot on you, Merrill. I don’t suppose you knew that – you certainly never picked up on his terrible attempts at flirting with you before he ran away to join the Order.’

He grinned round at the table, faltering when he saw three pairs of eyes pointedly staring at him.

‘Why are you all looking at me like that for?’ Hawke said, suspicion gnawing away inside him.

Suddenly, it hit him. Carver’s sudden cheerfulness. Merrill’s hot-headed, unexpected defence of his brother. Carver in the alienage last night. Merrill knowing he was there. And then, Varric saying Hawke _had_ to know whatever it was Merrill was hiding, and Isabela laughing that if Carver hurt her when she didn’t ask for it then he was doing it wrong…

The colour drained from his face.

‘Wait.’ Hawke’s amber eyes flashed with accusation, firmly fixing themselves on Merrill’s. ‘Merrill, are you – are you _seeing Carver?_ ’

Merrill bowed her head. Isabela squeezed her shoulder again, reassuringly, but Merrill could feel her tensing, as if she was preparing herself to stand up and defend her friend at any moment.

‘Merrill?’

Merrill gulped and closed her eyes. ‘Yes, Hawke. Yes, I am.’

Hawke stepped back, shocked.

‘Wow. I mean – wow. I had no idea. Honestly no idea.’

He paced back to his chair, running his hands frantically through his dark hair.

‘Wait. Merrill, are you – are you – oh no. You are, aren’t you.’

Merrill turned her face to him, opening her eyes to see the expression on Hawke’s face. Immediately she wished she hadn’t. Hawke was blanching even more.

‘You – and _Carver_ – Maker. You’re – you’re _together_ – you’re – Maker – Merrill. You’re _sleeping_ with my little brother, aren’t you.’

Merrill hung her head again. Guilt and shame washed through her; never had she felt this miserable in the Hanged Man before. Varric and Isabela continued to pat her hand and stroke her shoulder respectively.

Hawke continued to clutch his hair, looking like he was about to tear it out. He stopped pacing, and sunk down into his chair, looking like he’d had the wind completely knocked out of him. ‘So that’s where he was last night. He was staying with you. In the alienage.’

Merrill nodded miserably.

‘Varric,’ she said, voice cracking, ‘why did you say Hawke had to know about this again?’

Before Varric – or even Isabela – could answer her, Hawke spoke again, his head still in his hands.

‘Maker.’ Hawke was shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe it. My baby brother is _having sex_ with a _blood mage_. My baby brother, the _Templar_.’

To make matters worse, Anders had reappeared in the doorway with a tray of drinks.

‘Hawke,’ Anders said slowly, placing the tray carefully down on the table and sliding back into his chair, ‘did I hear that right?’

Hawke, still with his head in his hands, froze at the sound of Anders’s voice.

‘Hawke.’ Anders put an arm around him. ‘Tell me what’s wrong, love. Did I hear that correctly? Carver is having sex with a _blood mage_?’

Hawke emitted a low whine, possibly of distress, possibly of confusion. Merrill knew exactly how he felt, but her heart was thumping too hard to say anything.

‘What happened? Is he a thrall? Or is he just an idiot? Where did he find her – at the Blooming Rose, like Idunna?’

Hawke sat up then, and took both Anders’s hands in his. He looked Anders directly in the eye.

‘Anders.’ He cleared his throat. ‘My brother is not a blood mage thrall. And he didn’t go to the Blooming Rose. And whether he’s an idiot, well, the jury’s still out on that one.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Anders. Promise me you’ll remain calm and sensible about what I’m about to tell you.’

Isabela and Varric both tittered into their beers. Merrill took a deep breath, bracing herself for the inevitable Anders/Justice/Vengeance-fuelled storm. Anders looked confused, but eventually nodded.

‘My brother –’ Hawke screwed up his face, then took a deep breath. ‘Anders. Carver spent the night at Merrill’s last night.’

Anders looked at Hawke then at Merrill, blond ponytail shaking to and fro as he did so. Understanding dawned, and his hazel eyes widened.

‘ _No_ ,’ he breathed.

‘Yes,’ Isabela cut in emphatically, voice insistent. ‘And by the way, before you go ranting off on one at Kitten, _I_ set them up. You don’t have to like it. They love each other, so get over it.’

Hawke placed his palms onto the table, and sat back, exhaling. ‘I need a drink,’ he said, grabbing one of the beer mugs and taking a long gulp. When he settled his mug back down, he spoke again. ‘I have to say, I wasn’t expecting that. I always knew Carver was soft on Merrill, but – well,’ he said, eyes boring hard into her, and Merrill flushed again with shame, ‘I had no idea those feelings would ever be returned. Merrill. How long has this been going on?’

Merrill’s voice was small. ‘A few – a few weeks,’ she admitted. ‘We were trying to keep it secret, you see, for – obvious reasons. But I –’ her voice shook, but she lifted her chin to look at Hawke, determined, defiant, obstinate. ‘I love him. And he loves me.’

‘But he’s a _Templar_ ,’ Anders hissed, having recovered from his shock enough to seethe, ‘and you, a _blood mage_ of all things – Andraste’s tits. I really don’t know which one of you is more stupid. On second thoughts,’ Anders snarled at her, ‘that’s probably why you’re _perfect_ for each other.’

‘Oh, sod off,’ Isabela grumbled. ‘You’re getting boring now. I swear Anders, one more bitchy comment out of you about Merrill, and – so help me – I will thump you one.’

‘Fine,’ Anders sneered, ‘but don’t come crying to Hawke or the rest of us if he brings the entire Templar Order down on your pretty little head. Just because it’s all sunshine and roses for Ser Carrem and his blood mage so far doesn’t mean it’ll be the same for the templar you’ve started dating.’

‘Oh, Blondie,’ Varric chuckled heartily over Isabela’s sniggers. ‘Who else do you think Ser Carrem and his Revill were based on?’

Anders’s eyes went very wide, and his face went very white. Hawke, presumably remembering some of the steamier scenes (and realising who – and what – was the inspiration behind said steamier scenes), looked like he was about to vomit. After a few seconds, Anders turned to look at the rest of them, and his nauseated expression when his eyes fell on Merrill’s embarrassed face made Varric cackle in glee and Isabela hoot with loud laughter.

‘Maker,’ Anders gulped. ‘I – I think I’m going lay off reading “The Templar And The Blood Mage” for a bit.’

‘So am I,’ Hawke burbled, flushing.

‘But –’ Anders fumbled, suddenly hopeful that he could deny what he’d just learned about his most recent favourite fiction, ‘those dates. Those passionate kisses. Carrem taking flowers to her home. Those – those _naughty scenes_. They didn’t – they can’t have happened,’ he stammered, ‘please tell me, Varric, that they were entirely a figment of your imagination!’

‘Yes,’ Hawke also turned to Varric, desperate, pleading, ‘please tell me my brother isn’t having the hottest sex of his life right now!’

Isabela wiped tears of laughter away from her eyes for the second (possibly even the third) time. ‘Well,’ she spluttered between fits of laughter, ‘let’s say that Kitten here is one very, _very_ satisfied elf.’

Hawke went even redder than Merrill had ever seen him before; visibly mortified, he bent down and rested his forehead on the table in front of him, groaning softly. Anders, for his part, made an involuntarily retching sound, and then got up from the table and ran out of the room.

‘And after all,’ Varric’s grin was broad and sly, ‘they do say art imitates life.’


	3. A Date At The Estate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke and Merrill have a heart-to-heart; Hawke offers to help, and Carver and Anders rather wish he hadn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference Merrill makes to Isabela getting Carver and herself together after Hawke 'came back from Orlais and that Tallis business' is, of course, the Mark of the Assassin DLC... and this bit of dialogue that occurs if you choose to take Carver and Isabela with you:
> 
> Carver: So... how is Merrill? Sad that she couldn't come along.  
> Isabela: She's fine, all things considered. Why do you—Wait.  
> Carver: What?  
> Isabela: You. _Merrill_. Andraste's granny pants, I can't believe I never saw it before!  
>  Carver: What? No! No no no no. You've got it wrong.  
> Isabela: Stop fretting. I'm on your side, and I always win.  
> Carver: She's not a game of cards!  
> Isabela: Whatever. Good at matchmaking, not so good at the analogies.

When Hawke returned to Varric’s suite, the dwarf and Isabela had drifted off near the fireplace, deep in conversation over a sheaf of papers and a mug of beer each. Hawke frowned at the sheaf of papers, then turned to look at Merrill, who remained sat at the table, fidgeting uncomfortably with the handle of her beer mug. It was just him and her, now.

‘Merrill.’ Hawke sat down and reached across the table to take her hand. ‘Merrill. Sorry about leaving like that – just went for a walk to clear my head a bit. How are you?’

‘Fine.’ Her voice was tight; her expressive green eyes were cautious, hard. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine. I think.’ Hawke rubbed his hand over his beard. ‘Or at least, I will be. It was just – a shock, that was all.’

Merrill looked down at the table. ‘I’m sorry I made you upset,’ she mumbled.

‘You didn’t, Merrill. I just –’ Hawke’s lips twisted into a crooked smile beneath his beard, ‘I just can’t believe any girl would fall for my brother, that’s all.’

Merrill looked at him sharply.

‘Merrill. Look, I know you make him – happy,’ Hawke said, pronouncing the last word carefully, ‘and while I’m surprised, I’m genuinely glad he makes you happy in return. I’m serious. It’s just… it’s just that…’

Merrill’s tone was tense. ‘What?’

Hawke sighed. ‘You don’t really need me to tell you. But Anders has a point. You’re a blood mage, and he’s a templar.’

‘I know that,’ Merrill snapped, ‘and so does Carver. I just want everyone to stop treating us like we’re just – just stupid little children all the time. Maybe when we both first came to Kirkwall,’ she said, ‘but now…’ She inhaled deeply. ‘I know what I want. And he knows what he wants.’

‘I know,’ Hawke said, thumb rubbing circles into her hand, ‘I know. Maker, Merrill…’ he sighed. ‘It’s not just you who’s taken me by surprise, if I’m to be perfectly honest with you. I always knew Carver had a huge crush on you, but –’ he barked out a short laugh, ‘I had no idea how much he was willing to risk, just to be with you. In fact, to be perfectly honest, I had no idea how much he was willing to risk, just to even go on a few dates with you, which – by the sounds of it – didn’t look like they were even going to work out very well at the beginning, if Varric’s trashy romance –’ he glared at the dwarf’s back – ‘is anything to go by.’

Merrill felt her cheeks go pink, and she hastily took a sip of her drink to distract her. Hawke took her hand, and smiled awkwardly at her.

‘Clearly,’ he continued, ‘my brother loves you. A lot. More than even _I_ realised.’

He squeezed her hand. Merrill put her drink down.

‘Hawke,’ she said, still blushing, ‘I – I love Carver very much, too.’

‘I know, Merrill. I realise that now.’

‘And you’re not – are you sure you’re not angry with me?’

‘Angry? No,’ Hawke shook his head. ‘Surprised, as I said. Stunned, actually. Blindsided, definitely – even though really, I shouldn’t have been,’ he grinned. ‘But – and you’ll hate me for saying this, Merrill – worried about you, yes. Worried about both of you, actually, even if Carver is a tit.’

‘Hawke,’ Merrill shook her head, a smile creeping over her face, ‘he’s really not that bad. He’s quite lovely, in fact.’

Hawke chuckled. ‘Well, I’m glad he’s quite lovely to you, I suppose,’ he said, squeezing her hand again, ‘otherwise even _I_ would be telling you to break up with him, and I’m his elder brother. But seriously. I – was a bit shocked at first, but I’m fine now. Or I will be. And I’m glad you’re both happy.’ He sobered, as another thought entered his head. ‘Maker. I honestly had no idea Varric’s latest fiction was all about you and Carver. He didn’t even disguise it very well either; I can’t believe I never saw it before now.’

Merrill nodded. ‘Carrem and Revill. It _is_ kind of obvious – it sounds a lot like our names already as it is.’

‘Chopped up and swopped around,’ agreed Hawke, sighing. ‘How I didn’t see that, I have no idea.’ He glanced out of the doorway. ‘Maker. I do hope Anders is OK.’

‘Poor Anders,’ said Merrill, ‘reading it and all this time having no idea who Varric was writing about! I hope he recovers from the shock.’

Hawke laughed. ‘Well, at least I no longer have to fear that he might one day ask me to try out some of the things Ser Carrem and Revill get up to in bed, anymore,’ he grinned.

‘Really?’ Merrill perked up, interested. ‘Which one would you have been?’

‘Maker! I am not having this conversation with you,’ Hawke protested, with a nervous laugh, ‘not now I know it might end up being pillow-talk fodder the next time my brother pays you a visit.’

‘Oh, go on. I promise I won’t!’

Hawke chuckled. ‘No, Merrill, no. Really. I’ve had enough shocks to my sanity for one week. Not least that my baby brother, of all the goddamned people in Thedas, is the handsome, dashing, devoted Ser Carrem.’

Merrill giggled. ‘Well, he is,’ she insisted.

Hawke smiled. ‘Merrill, possibly the last one, but there is no way he is handsome or dashing. I’m sorry, but Carver has a face that only a mother could love.’

Merrill shook her head. Somewhere, she knew, deep down, the Hawke brothers loved each other very much; she would never understand it, but it seemed impossible for either of them to ever move past their fierce sibling rivalry and admit to anything else. ‘But that’s because you’re his brother,’ she pointed out. ‘Of course you don’t think he’s handsome. But I think so. And he is very sweet.’

‘Maybe. Just – just please don’t tell me what he’s like in bed. I’m glad you’re happy, Merrill, but really. I can’t cope with hearing about my baby brother’s sex life. I really can’t.’

She laughed. ‘I won’t, Hawke.’

‘Just one more thing, though.’ Hawke leaned forward onto his elbows, holding one fist in his other hand in front of him, as though about to invite confidences. ‘You’re one of the _elvhen_. And my brother is a human – a _shemlen_ , as your people would say.’

Merrill nodded.

‘Wouldn’t that – isn’t that – wouldn’t that be a problem? Frowned upon? Forbidden? I remember you saying something along the lines of, there are so few elves left, and it’s up to all elves left to keep the _elvhen_ going. I remember you telling me that being with a human is frowned upon because the children of elves and humans always end up – well, human,’ Hawke said. ‘Like Feynriel. Human but elven blooded.’

‘Are you trying to discourage me from seeing your brother after all, Hawke? Because it sounds like it.’

‘No. Not at all. I was just wondering what your clan would think about you being in a relationship with my brother, what with you being an elf and him being a human and all.’

Merrill flinched, then sighed. The old pang of loss came back, something she hadn’t felt for a few weeks now; being with Carver had managed to make her forget some of that.

‘My clan wouldn’t approve,’ she admitted sadly. ‘And you’re right. Being with a human would be very much frowned upon, at the very least. Especially as there are so few of us Dalish elves left. But my clan exiled me,’ she sighed bitterly, and Hawke grabbed her hand and squeezed it again, comfortingly, ‘and there’s no way back for me, nowhere else to go… I suppose there is nothing I can do that can make them hate me any more than they already do. What is being,’ her voice rose, quivering, ‘an _evil shemlen-lover_ on top of being supposedly a danger to my people, a danger to myself, a stupid little girl who consorts with demons? Whether I’m a _shemlen_ -lover or not makes absolutely no difference to them anymore.’

‘Does it make a difference to you, though, Merrill?’

Merrill paused, thinking. She gazed down at her beer mug again.

‘I suppose – I suppose it did, at first,’ she decided. ‘After you all came back from Orlais and that Tallis business, Isabela spent quite a few weeks trying to persuade me to date Carver, and well – we were good friends,’ she eyed Hawke carefully, ‘he came to visit me occasionally when he was out of the Gallows, and I’ve always enjoyed his company – and he was always very kind to me, even if he didn’t always say much,’ she said. ‘And well – he’s very handsome, for a templar, anyway,’ she gushed, a dreamy expression crossing her face, ‘and he makes me feel safe. But I was scared, Hawke. I was scared, because Carver’s a _shemlen_ , no matter what I feel about him, and I didn’t know if things like that mattered to him, and well, it mattered to me for a time, and… and I’m rambling again, sorry…’

‘Not at all, Merrill. Do carry on.’

‘But it’s not just because I’m one of the _elvhen_ , and we’re supposed to preserve who we are,’ she carried on. ‘And it’s not just that my clan would disapprove of our union on the grounds that he’s a human – which doesn’t matter to me now, not anymore. But I was also scared, because, well, like everyone keeps reminding me – Carver’s a templar.’

‘Doesn’t that still bother you?’

‘It does a bit. I don’t know that it would ever stop bothering me. Carver knows how I feel.’

‘Then – forgive the question, Merrill – why do you do it?’

‘I trust him,’ Merrill said, simply. ‘I love him, and that’s what made me realise him being human didn’t matter to me if it didn’t matter to him that I’m an elf. But the templar thing, though – that was much harder. I’d be lying if I say I’m not scared of what he – or I – could do because of it, but I decided that I trusted him, and that even if he is a templar, even if he can be rash and hot-headed sometimes, he is, I hope – first and foremost – someone who is good and kind and loyal, and that he wouldn’t hurt me. Or you. Or Anders. And I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t.’

‘I hope not.’

‘Do _you_ think he would, then?’

Hawke sighed. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. If I’m honest, I’m still reeling from the day I came home from the Deep Roads, and,’ he grimaced bitterly at the memory, ‘my brother was standing there, in Uncle Gamlen’s living room, in full templar armour and skirts, saying he’d joined the Order. Mother was pleading and begging with him not to go, but he stormed off anyway. Mother cried for a week.’

Hawke sighed again, and sat back.

‘I suppose, if I’m honest, I’m not over it. We’d spent all our lives on the run from the templars, and here he was, joining them. I never knew Carver had a problem with magic. I always thought he didn’t really understand it, but he wasn’t scared of it… I suppose I was wrong.’

‘You weren’t wrong,’ Merrill said, gently. ‘Carver – well, it’s like I told you when you came back from the Deep Roads Expedition – he _was_ angry and hurt that you didn’t take him, but –’

‘So he was getting back at me. Well, he succeeded. Kind of extreme, but – well done, little brother, you broke the hearts of your surviving family members and trampled on the memories of your mage father and mage twin sister.’

‘ _Elgar’nan_ ,’ Merrill breathed, wide-eyed. ‘Hawke. Is that truly how you feel?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know, Merrill. I only know I’m not over it.’

‘Because that wasn’t how he saw it. He just – he just wanted to go out there and do something for himself, for a change. To find his own path – find his purpose, he said. He wanted to go somewhere he thought would make a difference. I know you see him joining the templars as some sort of betrayal of you and the family, Hawke, but that wasn’t how he intended it. Definitely not.’

Hawke smiled at her then, a brittle, crooked thing. ‘Merrill. I’m truly glad you can take my brother’s greatest treachery of the Hawke family and turn it into something noble and well-intentioned. And you may well be right. Just… just right now, even years later, it’s hard for me not to feel betrayed by what he’s done. I’m just grateful for the estate, and the money, and the influence all that’s bought me, because the last thing I want to be afraid of – and like you, there’s a part of me that’s still afraid of it, to be honest – is that my bratty little brother throws a templar hissy fit and has me arrested and locked in the Gallows. Or killed. Or made Tranquil,’ Hawke shuddered, ‘or have any of those things happen to you, or Anders.’

Merrill thought for a bit. ‘Well,’ she eventually said, trying to keep her tone light, ‘if he tries to have _me_ arrested and locked up in the Gallows, or made Tranquil, I’m sure Varric’s latest serial will ensure you have plenty of blackmail material on him!’

Hawke laughed. ‘True, true. Can’t see Knight-Commander Meredith, or Knight-Captain Cullen, being too thrilled that one of their own has a blood mage girlfriend.’

‘No,’ agreed Merrill, cheerfully, ‘that definitely won’t go down too well.’

They both sat in contemplative silence for a while, slightly more contented and less shaken than they had been. Finally, Hawke spoke again.

‘Merrill,’ he began, cheeky affectionate grin on his face. ‘If you crazy kids are going persist in this utter madness of a relationship,’ he winked to let her know he meant it good-naturedly, ‘then I suppose I shall have to help you.’

‘Oh Hawke, that really won’t be necessary –’

‘No, listen,’ Hawke said. ‘Please, Merrill. Just for one minute.’ He sighed, and ruffled his hair. ‘Maker knows Anders isn’t going to like this, and Carver will probably hate me for this, as usual – but I want to do this for you. I’m going to let Carver know that if he needs a place for you two to – _meet_ ,’ Hawke grimaced as he choked out the word; Merrill giggled as she realised he really meant _fuck_ – ‘I’ll have the servants set up a room for both of you, and you can both – get on with it there. No one’s going to bother Carver on his day off when he comes home to visit Mother. So you’ll be less likely to get caught when you’re both at the estate. Maker knows you’re both playing a dangerous enough game as it is, and if I can make the risk of either or both of you getting caught by the templars somewhat less – I’ll do it,’ Hawke said. ‘Sound all right to you?’

Merrill cocked her head on one side, considering his offer, then nodded. ‘Sounds all right to me, Hawke,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

*** 

‘Andraste’s tits!’ Anders stormed down the stairs of the Hawke Estate, flying towards Carver in a flurry of feathers and righteous anger. ‘Do you _really_ have to turn up here in your full bloody templar armour? Do you never take the bloody thing off?’

Carver rolled his eyes. Bloody Garrett, and his bloody interfering. Carver should have known better really: this arrangement could never have gone as smoothly as Garrett had assured him it would.

‘Anders!’ As if on cue, Garrett hurtled out of the bedroom and down the stairs after his lover; his normally neat beard ruffled, his hair askew. ‘Just – just leave Carver alone,’ he pleaded. ‘Merrill’s here, and I promised them they could come here for their, erm, private time.’

‘But it’s supposed to be his day off,’ snarled Anders, gesturing violently at Carver, who frowned and folded his arms. ‘Why in Thedas does he have to clank through the estate in his templar armour on his day off? I’m having a hard enough time reining Justice in as it is; he can’t distinguish between your brother and any other templar – and quite frankly, I don’t know why he should.’

‘When you’re done bitching, magey,’ Carver growled, ‘perhaps you can let me go. You’ve got better things to do than talk to me, I’m sure; and I’ve got better things to do than talk to you.’

‘Anders is right, anyway,’ Garrett said, and Carver really wanted to punch his older brother in his smug, superior, know-it-all face, ‘why _have_ you turned up in full templar armour and skirts on your day off? You look ridiculous.’

‘ _I_ don’t think he looks ridiculous,’ came a lilting, singsong voice before Carver could open his mouth, and the three men turned around to look at the stairs. Merrill was standing there, beaming brightly, waving at Carver, and he couldn’t help but break out into a smile at the sight of her. Maker, but she was beautiful, and amazing, and he was so glad to see her again; he really missed her when they were apart. ‘Hello, Carver.’

‘Merrill.’ Garrett let out a long, loud sigh. ‘You didn’t _ask_ Carver to turn up in his templar armour, did you?’

‘Of course I did,’ Merrill chirped happily, and Carver had to stifle a laugh at his brother’s and Anders’s incredulous expressions. ‘I like him in his templar armour. I think he makes it look very sexy. Oh, and I like to watch him strip it off.’

‘Oh for _fuck’s_ sake,’ Anders exploded, while Garrett cringed at the thought of Carver performing a striptease. ‘That explains it. I should have known Thicko here –’ he pointed at Merrill, ‘– had something to do with it. Maker, Hawke, even your brother isn’t so stupid as to stomp all the way to the estate dressed up as a templar without warning – of course Little Miss Shit-For-Brains Blood Magic asked him to do it.’

‘She’s not a thicko,’ growled Carver, but his brother was already tugging on Anders’s arm, clearly desperate to get away.

‘Anders. Let’s just – let’s just make ourselves scarce, all right?’

‘Hawke –’

‘Leave them to it,’ commanded Garrett. ‘Whether I like it or not, Carver has the right to visit here, if only because Mother wants him to. And if that visit includes Merrill,’ Garrett blanched, ‘then so be it. Come on. We’ve got things to do, anyway.’

Garrett marched a still-protesting Anders through the door of the library and slammed it shut behind them. Carver released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding; he looked back up the stairs at Merrill and grinned at her.

‘Did I miss something again? What was all that about?’

Carver shrugged. ‘Maker knows. Don’t ask me,’ he said, climbing the steps towards her; she bounced her way back to the top of the stairs and turned back towards him as he met her on the landing, sweeping her into his arms. ‘Come on, beautiful. Let’s make up for lost time,’ he said, as they stumbled into the room Mother had had Bodahn make up for him, giggling as they crossed the threshold.

They collapsed on the bed next to each other once they were spent, panting, exhausted, Carver idly stroking her hair as she wriggled beside him.

‘This bed is so big!’ she exclaimed. ‘Creators, Carver, I didn’t know your brother had such big, soft beds!’

Carver just pressed her closer to him in response. ‘Let’s – let’s not talk about Garrett now.’

‘Carver,’ Merrill began, in a voice that conveyed that she was going to talk about Garrett anyway, whether Carver liked it or not, ‘I hope you don’t mind me agreeing to take Hawke up on his offer of getting together when we’re here rather than at the alienage.’

Carver grunted. He hadn’t liked it at first, actually. Not when Garrett had turned up in the Gallows and whispered him the plan; Maker, did Garrett have to poke his bloody nose into everything, including his relationship?

‘I’m doing it for her, not you,’ Garrett had hissed at him, his mouth in a hard line, after Carver swore at him. ‘I don’t want her to get caught any more than you do. The estate is probably safer for both of you, and Merrill has already agreed to it.’

He turned his head to the side to face her on the pillow. He didn't want to lie and pretend he hadn’t minded; of course he had.

‘I suppose it was worth a try,’ he conceded.

‘And even better,’ she said, cheerfully, ‘you can also visit your mother while you’re here, after we’re done!’

‘Merrill, please let’s not talk about my mother right now. At least, not while we’re naked in bed together.’

Merrill huffed. ‘Have it your way, _ma vhenan_ ,’ she said, running her slender fingers through his hair. Carver turned his head to trace her movements and kissed the inside of her wrist.

‘And also,’ he said, grabbing her, flipping her so she was on top of him, ‘I’m not done with you yet.’

Merrill shrieked happily, and kissed him.

‘I love you,’ she sighed happily, resting her head against his shoulder, sprawled naked on top of his own unclothed body.

‘I love you, too, Merrill.’

‘I love watching you take off your armour. Even if the sight of your armour seemed to make Anders all grumpy earlier.’

Carver barked a laugh. ‘Then as far as I’m concerned, it was worth showing up here in it.’

Merrill was silent then; Carver merely stroked her, his large hands gentle on her face, her hair, and her body. They lay there for a while in each other’s arms, both content, until Merrill propped herself up on her elbows, kissed him full on the lips – and then some more, with tongues, which Carver loved – and when their mouths broke apart, panting, she gazed deep into his eyes, her green eyes keen and hungry; the atmosphere between them charged with lust.

‘ _Ma vhenan_ ,’ she breathed, and Carver’s heart pounded with excitement. ‘I want you inside me.’

Carver had no choice but to obey her.

*** 

‘Maker!’ yelled Anders, slamming the door behind him and covering his ears. ‘Hawke. How much longer do we have to listen to your brother and Merrill going at it like rabbits?’

Garrett looked up from his book. ‘You can hear them? I thought this part of the house was fairly sound proof.’

‘Not here, obviously,’ Anders sighed, exasperated, ‘but whenever I try to go to another part of the house, like just now when I went to get more ink to write the manifesto – just – urgh!’

‘Hmmm, I can imagine what “urgh” would be like,’ Garrett grimaced. ‘You could always stay here instead. Stop wandering around to other parts of the house, and you don’t have to hear them.’           

‘Hawke. I am telling you, this cannot go on.’

‘Not my choice anymore. Mother is delighted – she's hoping it means that Carver might come home more often.’

‘Seriously, Hawke. Leandra _cannot_ be delighted with _that_!’

‘Why, I think she’s out. She knows about the arrangement, and she’s fine with Merrill. Heck, she’s even fine with you,’ Garrett gave his lover a fond smile, ‘though obviously she doesn’t know about Justice…’

‘Enough, Hawke. I refuse to keep being forced to listen to Carver and Merrill having sex. It’s just – just – Maker, it was bad enough finding out they were the real-life inspiration for Varric’s erotic romance serial. I just don’t want to have to listen to it too.’

‘I would ask if you’re jealous,’ murmured Garrett, ‘but I happen to know better.’

Anders’s expression softened.

‘You’re right, love,’ he said, voice soft and fond. ‘I’m very happy with what we’ve got. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’

Garrett closed his book, stood up, and walked towards Anders. He reached out to hold Anders’s hands in his, pulling his lover towards him. Anders smiled back at him, a mirror of Garrett’s own contented, loving expression.

‘Then,’ Garrett said, his tender smile turning into a wicked smirk, ‘let’s give my templar brother a taste of his own medicine, shall we?’

*** 

‘Maker’s breath!’ squealed Carver, his face paling. ‘Just – aaaaagh! I didn’t take up my brother’s offer of a safe haven here to listen to him and that abomination having sex!’

Merrill cocked her head, listening. ‘I’ve never heard two men go at it before,’ she marvelled, brightly. ‘Or at least, if it happened among the clan I was never aware of it.’

‘It’s just – just –’ Carver stopped his spluttering, and on the sound of a loud, strangled cry from the room next door, he shuddered again. ‘Maker. Are they dying? Why in the Void does my brother sound like a drowning mabari?’

‘I suppose they had to listen to us,’ Merrill began, wondering what the usual _shemlen_ manners would be in this situation. ‘Perhaps it is only fair we listen to them? Should we go in and watch?’

‘Merrill. No.’ Carver paled further. ‘I really don’t want to listen to – or watch – my brother in that state. Bad enough we had to share a room at Uncle Gamlen’s,’ he recalled, shuddering at the recollection. ‘Couldn’t even have a decent wank to thoughts of you without worrying that Garrett knew what I was doing.’

Merrill leaned over and kissed him. ‘Carver,’ she said, ‘ _ma vhenan_. We could always go to another part of the house and try again when you’re ready.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be able to get it up with my brother making that racket,’ Carver protested, ‘but thanks. Maybe we should – you know, leave the estate for a bit.’           

‘Well, we can’t really go anywhere together right now,’ Merrill pointed out, ‘with you in your templar armour and me being an elf. People might ask questions.’

Carver grimaced. ‘Point taken.’

‘Just try to ignore them,’ Merrill said, smoothing her hand across his brow. ‘There’s nothing we can do right now anyway. So we’ll just have to stay here – or stay in the estate, for now, anyway.’

Carver sighed. ‘That’s true.’ He pulled the naked elf into his lap. ‘You know I was about to say we sound like one of Varric’s stories, the templar and the blood mage, and then I realised – it _is_ one of Varric’s stories.’

‘Yes,’ Merrill said. ‘So I found out, the other day. Have you read it?’

‘Maker, no. But lots of the recruits in the Gallows are reading it,’ Carver said, ‘and all the girls are hooked on it. Varric’s serial is pretty much all over the bloody Gallows at the moment; wouldn’t surprise me if the mages in there are reading it as well. But the templars, well, they’re practically swooning over the great love story that is Ser – now what’s his name –’

‘Ser Carrem,’ Merrill filled in for him, ‘and Revill.’

‘Yeah. Them.’

‘I was wondering why you’d never mentioned it to me,’ Merrill said, looking away from him and fixing her eyes on the window.

Carver looked surprised. ‘Well, no, it’s just some silly romance story Varric came up with,’ he eventually said. ‘Sort of like “Hard In Hightown”, or maybe "Swords and Shields", but set in the Gallows. Maybe. I’ve not really being paying a lot of attention to it, to be honest. Did you want to read it? Did you want me to get you copies of the serial?’

‘Carver, _ma vhenan_. What do they say about it in the Gallows?’

‘Well, I've not been listening to too much of it, really,’ Carver scratched the back of his neck, wondering where the conversation was going, ‘I mean, I know there’s some really steamy scenes between Ser Thingy and his blood mage, but I think most of the talk is about how he’s the perfect knight, dashing and devoted to the woman he loves, and all that. Oh, and how cute and adorable his elf mage is, and is it possible to do all those magic things in bed, and… why do you ask?’

‘Carver,’ Merrill said slowly, ‘do you not think that the templar and the blood mage in the story remind you very much of someone – or _someones_ – you know?’

‘Really? I’ve not read it. I just assumed it was another of Varric’s tall tales.’

‘Think, _ma vhenan_ ,’ Merrill said, not unkindly, kissing the side of his forehead. ‘A handsome templar, and an elf blood mage.’

‘Well, there’s us,’ Carver started with a laugh, ‘unless there’s other templars with elf blood mage lovers I don’t know about. Wait…’ His blue eyes narrowed. ‘Merrill. Are you saying – are you saying that Tethras – based his latest romance serial on us?’

‘ _Ma sa’lath_ , I’m not just saying it,’ Merrill answered in a patient voice. ‘Isabela told me that we were exactly who he based Ser Carrem and Revill on. All Varric did to create their names was combine and reverse parts of our names.’

For a moment, Carver just sat there, gaping, speechless. The noises of Hawke and Anders making love were still audible in their room, but somehow, Merrill suspected, Carver was no longer listening to them.

‘Maker,’ he muttered, scowling, ‘sometimes I hate that bloody dwarf.’


	4. The Pen Is Mightier Than The Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carver confronts Varric, Isabela discovers Merrill's mirror, and Varric plots his revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies for the quotes shamelessly stolen from Futurama and Ralph Waldo Emerson - and for the cheesy send-up of Fifty Shades of Grey. (It had to happen eventually.)

When Varric talked about ‘having friends in the Circle, and drinking buddies in the templars’, one of the templars he had been referring to was Carver. Well, _had_ been Carver. The younger Hawke hadn’t really been around much since he’d joined the Order – excuses of training and duty had been cited – but then again, it had previously been near impossible _not_ to have drinks with him: before Hawke and Varric went on the Deep Roads Expedition, Carver had spent most of his time drinking, whoring, bitching about his betters, and getting into fights in bars. Perhaps this had been why Hawke had, in the end, elected not to take Carver along: Varric knew the Hawke brothers had argued about Carver’s propensity to ‘do a Gamlen’ and ‘piss money up the wall’ several times. Even Aveline had expressed her concerns that Carver might end badly, like so many in Kirkwall seemed to be dead set on doing. 

But maybe they’d all been too hard on the boy. He had been, after all, just a nineteen-year-old kid. Right down to the storming off in a sulk and joining the Templar Order (or at least, that’s how Hawke had told it). Not that he hadn’t popped by the Hanged Man once or twice for a few beers in the past three years or so; a game of Wicked Grace had even ensued sometimes if Varric happened to venture out of his suite and bump into him at the bar. Varric noted, with a slight curiosity, that Carver studiously avoided his brother’s presence, both in the tavern and outside of it, as well as the rest of Hawke’s merry band of misfits, but Varric suspected he already knew the reason for it. (While the storyteller in Varric was as interested in hearing gossip as he was in spreading it, he never liked to pry unasked into painful family affairs too much. Well, not unless people voluntarily offered it up anyway – in which case, Varric would never say no.) Under the circumstances, then, Varric had got used to the fact that they weren’t going to see very much of Carver for the time being.

So it was quite a surprise when the man in question strode into Varric’s suite in full templar armour with a face like thunder; blue eyes blazing with a fury that told the dwarf that perhaps Carver _hadn’t_ come for a beer and a few rounds of Wicked Grace right now.

‘Junior!’ Ever the smooth operator, Varric merely looked up from his ink-stained parchment and smiled pleasantly, seemingly unfazed by Carver’s sudden appearance. ‘Well, this _is_ unexpected. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Carver slammed his gauntleted hands on the table in front of him. ‘Don’t play stupid with me, dwarf. You _know_ what this is all about.’

Varric remained unmoved; he raised a hand and calmly motioned for Carver to be seated. ‘Honestly, Junior, I have no idea. Templar business?’

Carver ignored the gesture and remained on his feet, looming menacingly across the table. (Varric wished he wouldn’t. He was blocking out the light.) ‘Your latest sodding work of fiction, Varric. _The Templar And The Blood Mage_.’

‘Oh that!’ Varric chortled. Carver knew he cut a fairly imposing figure in bulky Knight-Corporal armour plate – certainly more so than some sandy-haired dwarf who showed off his hairy chest at all times – but Varric simply leaned back in his throne-like chair, cocky demeanour resolutely not cowed by the large templar standing before him. Carver wished he could feel quite so superior. ‘Something wrong with it, Junior?’

‘Everything’s wrong with it!’ Carver shouted. ‘What in the Void do you think you’re doing, peddling some filth based on Merrill and me?’

‘And what makes you think that is so?’ Varric steepled his fingers, voice smooth, carefully observing the younger man over the tips. ‘Maybe I just branched out into romances? The “Swords and Shields” romance serial started well so far, so… maybe I decided to write one involving templars and blood mages?’

Carver’s voice was icy. ‘Maybe my fist will meet your face, dwarf.’

‘I wouldn’t try it, Junior. Bianca doesn’t react well to threats, and your head’s a fine target.’

Varric proudly stroked the shining crossbow next to him – which, Carver belatedly noticed, was fully cocked and within easy reach. Carver knew, from previous experience, that the dwarven rogue’s cunning and reflexes could swiftly put anyone in trouble even when one perceived no danger. Right now, however, Carver was so angry he didn’t give a shit.

‘Don’t you bloody threaten me,’ Carver hissed, leaning forward. ‘You’re the one who started it, writing your stupid serial about us. Or did you think Merrill wouldn’t have told me about that?’

‘Hey, a storyteller’s gotta take inspiration where he finds it, Junior. The sheer deliciousness of a templar in love with a blood mage was simply too good an opportunity to pass up – and a storyteller’s gotta make a living after all.’ Varric hauled Bianca onto the table, seemingly to examine the crossbow, but Carver detected the implied threat. ‘Besides, you think the nobles of Hightown who read it will care? It’s the forbidden fruit angle _everybody_ loves.’

‘Cut the crap, Varric. As if I care what the nobles of Hightown think. It’s more what the _templars_ might think that pisses me off about your “branching out into romances”.’

‘Really, Junior?’ Varric snorted. ‘You think my fiction will place you in more danger than you’ve already placed yourself? The templar with the well-known apostate brother he won’t turn in? The templar romancing the blood mage he also won’t turn in?’ His sharp brown eyes watched the young man’s scowl flicker. ‘Do you know another lovable lug with more sword than sense?’

Carver spluttered. ‘That’s not – none of that’s any reason for you to write dirty stories about Merrill and me!’

‘It’s _not_ a dirty story,’ Varric insisted, calmly. ‘It’s a _romance_.’

‘No, _you_ call it romance. I say it’s filth. Don’t think I don’t know some of the stuff you’ve written in it, dwarf.’

‘Well, what’s a few well-placed steamy scenes in the context of a passionate, forbidden love between two exact opposites?’ Varric chuckled. ‘Or would you have preferred that I wrote a chaste romance instead?’

Carver slammed his fists on the table, desperate to regain some footing in the exchange. ‘Maker, I hate you, dwarf. Merrill and I are not fodder for you and your bloody stories!’

‘Aww, come on, Junior. You’re afraid again of being overshadowed by an imaginary you, is that it? Or an imaginary Daisy this time?’

‘No! No.’ This time, at least, being overshadowed by another Hawke – real or fictional – was _definitely_ the least of Carver’s worries. And he didn’t care about being overshadowed by a fictional Merrill either. He gritted his teeth. ‘Merrill and me – that stuff’s _private_. Not part of some – some tall tale of yours. None of your business.’

‘Junior, that _is_ my business. I tell tales. Many of them. And furnish everybody with fine ale.’

 _And use all that as a front for your extensive spy network_ , Carver wanted to retort, but didn’t. He sighed. ‘Maker’s breath, Varric. Why couldn’t you find some other grand romance to write about? I’m sure my brother and Anders could supply you with romantic heroes enough to make all of Kirkwall swoon.’

Varric laughed. ‘What makes you think I haven’t come up with enough stories about your brother already, Little Hawke?’

‘Well, maybe _my brother_ doesn’t mind. But _I_ do. My love life is absolutely none of your business.’

‘And – what? You’ll bring the templars down on me? Good luck with that, Little Hawke.’

Carver narrowed his eyes at the dwarf. ‘All right, then. I’ll burn every single copy I come across. See how you like _that_!’

To Carver’s surprise, Varric just laughed. Maker, he hated how unflappably cocky that dwarf was. ‘Every burned book enlightens the world, Junior. Do you really think _that_ ’ll stop me? Or stop people reading it?’ Varric grinned and shook his head, his stubby ponytail swishing ever so slightly with the movement. ‘Besides, I’d have thought you templars had enough problems capturing escaped apostates and hunting dangerous blood mages. Especially with your numbers being so decimated as it is – I seem to recall _you_ even played a part in some of that,’ Varric added, inspecting Bianca again, while the crossbow gleamed under his reverent touch. ‘So tell me, Little Hawke, how do you propose to destroy every copy you come across, given your busy templar duties and your need to not draw attention to yourself and the apostates you’re harbouring, hmmm?’

Varric had him, as usual. Carver exhaled. ‘Look, Varric. I just want you to stop. That’s all.’

Varric paused. ‘Daisy reacted far better than this,’ he muttered. He breathed out a long, loud sigh. ‘Fine, fine, have it your way, Junior. I’ll work up to Ser Carrem and Revill’s romantic big finish. Happy?’

‘You’ll “work up to their big finish”?’ Carver was aghast. ‘But that could take _ages_! Why can’t you finish it now?’

‘You really don’t know anything about telling a good story, do you, Junior? A good story… goes where it wants to go. The characters drive it, not me.’

‘Stop making excuses, Varric. _You’re_ the author. _You’re_ the one who chooses what to write.’

‘Not at all. I’m just the messenger, relaying the story the characters tell me.’ Varric’s eyes bored into him, pointedly. ‘That’s all a storyteller ever does, Junior. It’s up to the _characters_ what they choose to do, not _me_.’

Carver sighed again and pushed off the table. ‘Whatever, Varric. I see there’s no point reasoning with you.’

‘Well, consider yourself very lucky, Carver.’ Varric finally put the crossbow away as the templar turned to head out the door and back to the Gallows. ‘Your life could go far worse than finding yourself the inspiration for a popular romance serial.’

 

*** 

‘You’ve had many lovers, haven’t you?’ Merrill asked, settling the glasses of water down on the hexagonal wooden dining table; not for the first time she wished she had something more interesting to offer her guests, but fortunately Isabela was never one to complain about Merrill’s hospitality. Or lack of it.

The pirate took a swig from the glass Merrill offered her. ‘Fewer than some think.’

‘But you never stay with them.’

‘No.’ Isabela swung her feet up onto Merrill’s dining table and leaned majestically back in her chair, breasts proudly on display in her low-cut top like bronzed globes. ‘Why should I?’

‘But the act of lovemaking is so... intimate.’

‘I don’t “make love”,’ Isabela explained, patiently. ‘What I do is only skin-deep, Kitten. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.’

Isabela raised the glass to her lips again, and was about to ask Merrill how her date at the Hawke Estate went, when her eye fell on a large shard of greyish opaque glass on the table. ‘Merrill. What is that?’

‘Oh, that! Nothing.’

‘Hmmm.’ Isabela took a hearty gulp of her water, even if she wished it were a good fine ale. She reached out to pick it up, but Merrill swiped her hand away.

‘Don’t touch it!’

‘Why not? It’s not valuable is it?’

‘No! Well, maybe. I –’

‘OK, OK, I won’t touch it,’ Isabela reassured her, wondering why Merrill was so jumpy over a mere shard of glass all of a sudden.

Merrill cocked her head, as if considering something, before she spoke again. ‘Well, it won’t be valuable to you. But it’s valuable to me.’

‘Is it – something from your clan?’

‘No, not really. It’s – well.’ Merrill took a deep breath. ‘It’s a fragment from an eluvian. It’s part of a mirror.’

Isabela regarded the shard again curiously. ‘But it doesn’t seem to reflect, Merrill.’

‘Well, it’s not that type of mirror,’ Merrill began. ‘The ancient elves used them to communicate and travel between cities in the days before the fall of Arlathan. My clan found an eluvian back in Ferelden, but when I got there it had been shattered and two of our best hunters had disappeared – lost to the Taint from the mirror, Keeper Marethari said. But I – I recognised what it truly was, and what it could mean for the elves, so before we departed for Kirkwall, I managed to recover and keep a shard of the eluvian. I’ve been trying to restore it, but I had to cleanse the shard of the Taint first.’

‘So it’s Tainted?’ If Isabela was troubled by the revelation behind the innocent-looking mirror shard on the table, she didn’t show it; but she was starting to feel rather glad Merrill had stopped her from picking it up. _Damn_ her propensity to touch shiny objects.

‘Not any more,’ Merrill said. ‘That one –’ she nodded at the shard in front of them on the table, ‘– is one I created from the original shard; I’m having to restore the eluvian piece by piece. I’ve just had a smith in Lowtown create a frame for it –’ Merrill nodded towards her bedroom doorway, where a huge, ornate gilded mirror frame took pride of place in a corner of the sparsely furnished room, ‘– and I thought I might have had more time to work on it before you came. I should have put it away, I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t you worry about it, Merrill,’ Isabela reassured her, sitting back. ‘It’s fine.’

‘Thank you,’ Merrill said, and then she sighed. ‘If only my clan were as understanding as you.’

‘Was this what you were kicked out over?’

‘Yes. I had to use blood magic to cleanse the shard – I didn’t have any lyrium to enhance my magic, so I had no choice – and the Keeper and I disagreed. But she doesn’t understand. My clan don’t understand. This – this could restore who we were,’ Merrill voice was excited, awed, ‘this could help give my people everything back that we’ve lost over the centuries.’

‘That’s a big task,’ Isabela said, draining her glass. ‘How far along is it?’

‘It’s so nearly done,’ Merrill replied, eyes dancing, ‘I’ve put so many years of work into restoring this thing, researched as much from _elvhen_ lore as I could, read so many books – even obtained what I could from the shard itself – just a few more weeks of work and I should be able to piece it together and finish it, I hope. It’ll be amazing.’

‘I certainly hope so, Kitten,’ Isabela said, though somehow Merrill’s words gave her a bad feeling about it all that she couldn’t quite place her finger on. ‘I certainly hope so. For you, at least.’

‘Oh, it’s not for me, it’ll be for the good of my clan,’ Merrill said. ‘But, anyway. How about you? Any news about your relic?’

‘Oh, that.’ Isabela laughed uneasily, though Merrill didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. ‘No, still nothing. But nevermind that,’ she quickly changed the subject, ‘how did your date at the Hawke Estate go?’

Merrill immediately beamed. Isabela was grateful for the distraction. When Merrill talked about Carver, her face lit up with happiness, and it was hard to believe the young elf had ever had a crush on her lover’s older brother when she’d first met him, though that had proved to be very short-lived – especially once Carver had come on the scene with his awkward (and, frankly, piss-poor) attempts to chat Merrill up. Merrill enthusiastically chattered on in her lilting Dalish accent while Isabela listened, hummed occasionally in agreement, answered Merrill’s questions about how to walk with a swagger and perform a striptease, and leaned forward in excitement when a blushing Merrill dreamily reminisced her night with Carver – the absolute trust in his eyes as she tied up her templar, using tendrils of nature magic to secure his wrists to the bedposts, secure him to her; filaments of her magic gently ensnaring the two of them together with the most tender touches and feather-light strokes, his body to hers.

Merrill eventually broke off, cupping her glass in her hands and staring into it, her expression turning from blissful to thoughtful. When she spoke again, she drew the words out slowly, carefully. ‘Isabela,’ she began, ‘Varric’s always been very sweet to me. Why did he start writing “The Templar And The Blood Mage”?’

‘Oh, Kitten,’ Isabela patted Merrill’s thin forearm, ‘Varric didn’t do it to upset you. He thought your love story was beautiful and inspiring, and that’s why he wrote it. With everything going on in Kirkwall, we could all use a happy story right now.’

Merrill looked up. ‘Really?’

‘Really, Kitten. You always asked Varric if you were in any of his stories. Now you’ve inspired one of his most popular ones. That can’t be a bad thing, can it?’

Merrill stared down at her glass again. ‘No. I suppose not.’

‘Besides, you know Varric. _Everyone_ is fair game for his stories. He’s not doing it to be malicious. And he certainly wouldn’t do it to upset you. He’s just – Varric being Varric. Most of his stories concerning you tend to involve you getting lost around Kirkwall, and ending up in, say, the Grand Cleric’s airing cupboard.’

Merrill straightened up in her chair. ‘I suppose when you put it like that…’

‘Kitten, it’s a compliment. Varric hasn’t written anything bad about you. He thought you and Carver were inspiring enough to base an entire romance serial on. It’s kind of like friend fiction. He’s doing it out of love.’

Finally, Merrill smiled. ‘Varric really is very sweet. And I suppose it is flattering, in a way.’

‘He’s always been very fond of you, Kitten, and he’s always taken care of you. And that’s still the case even with his fiction.’ Isabela stood up. ‘And I also know he’d love to see you again. Coming to the Hanged Man later?’

 

***

_‘Just at that moment, Ser Carrem walks through the Banged Ham tavern. Holy crap! He’s wearing his shiny ~~Knight-Corporal~~ templar armour, his large broadsword sheathed on his back, and the grey and red templar skirt with the Chantry sun outlined in yellow embroidery hangs from his hips. Oh my, she thinks. Revill flushes as Ser Carrem nods authoritatively at her on his way out, her sweet elven cheeks now as pink as the giant ham hanging over the tavern door. Ser Carrem smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the Banged Ham, slinging his templar helmet over his shoulder, leaving Revill a quivering mass of raging female hormones. Revill tosses her mage staff to the side. Of course, that would not be the only wood she would be tossing that night. Oh my, she murmurs to herself. At the thought of the (k)night to come, Revill feels the colour in her cheeks rising again – she must be the colour of ~~Anders’s Manifesto~~ the Mage Rights Manifesto.’_

Varric set aside the parchment. Carver’s surprise visit earlier seemed to have left him with a most annoying case of writer’s block. Well, re-writer’s block, in this case. Perhaps he’d have better luck if he worked on another scene, he thought, picking up another parchment and reading through the draft currently inked on it. Perhaps Isabela could help him with the re-write of this scene instead.

_‘Revill flushes at the sight of Ser Carrem’s erection. Oh my, she thinks, her inner ~~Andraste~~ ~~Mythal~~ ~~demon~~ spirit doing a leapfrogging-somersaulting-leaping-somersault of joy as she rejoices at the thought of having that cock in her mouth. Holy crap! He’s hung like a halla. Revill’s inner spirit does the happy dance of a desire demon summoned by blood magic when she tentatively wraps her tongue around Ser Carrem’s magnificent member, guiding him gently between her small sweet elven lips. Ser Carrem groans – she’s so much better at this than the whores at the Blossoming Peaches were – and his penis is now as hard and soft as a velvet rod. Revill pulls him deeper into her mouth so she can feel him at the back of her throat and then to the front again. Her tongue swirls around the end. He’s her very own Ser Carrem-flavoured popsicle. Revill sucks harder and harder, allowing the electricity storm to build up inside her mouth, working her magic (in more ways than one) until the templar comes apart. Oh my. She flushes again, and her inner spirit sways in a gentle victorious samba.’_

Maybe it was time to leave it for the night, Varric thought to himself, as Isabela came back with a bottle of ale and a glass of wine.

‘So,’ Varric set the second parchment aside and took his wine from the pirate. ‘Junior and Daisy.’

‘I think they’re darling together,’ cooed Isabela, sitting down.

‘It’s almost too adorable. Well, except for the evil blood magic thing.’

‘Varric,’ Isabela sniggered and shook her head. ‘The most evil thing Merrill does most days is pick the flowers out of other people’s gardens.’

‘I know,’ said Varric, sniffing his wine. ‘I have to bribe most of the gardeners in Hightown to keep it quiet. Will she be joining us later?’

‘She said she would. Why?’

‘Well, I got a house call from her boyfriend earlier,’ Varric drawled casually, despite the frown on his face, ‘and he was not happy about my latest serial.’

Isabela laughed. ‘Come on, Varric. Since when is Carver happy about anything? Well, except Kitten, of course. I wouldn’t get your knickers in a knot, if I were you. We’re talking about a man who spent our time at Chateau Haine complaining about Orlesians and merry-making. And that’s even if you don’t count that before he joined the Order, he spent his time complaining about mages, his life, and the weather most days.’

‘Fair point, Rivaini. Ah, and here’s Daisy. Glad you could make it – I was beginning to worry you’d got lost.’

Isabela swung round to see Merrill dripping in the doorway, green eyes large and round, looking like a wet and bedraggled kitten. Varric surreptitiously tucked away his handwritten sheets of parchment and greeted the elf with a wide, avuncular smile.

‘Got caught in the rain, Daisy? Not to worry, we’ve saved you a seat, over here near the nice roaring fire.’

‘Thank you,’ Merrill said, sitting down in the chair Varric indicated. ‘I forgot my ball of twine so I did start to get a little bit lost, but fortunately I spotted one of the Hanged Man regulars and followed him. At least it’s nice and dry and warm in here.’

‘That’s good to hear, Daisy. Right. Shall we start with a game?’

Merrill shook her head, braids swinging to and fro, droplets of water from her short dark hair spraying over the table. ‘Oh, not right yet, Varric,’ she chirped. ‘I was wondering if you could tell us a story first? You know how much I love hearing your stories.’

‘Sure thing, Daisy. Any particular story you want to hear?’

‘Oh! I don’t mind,’ Merrill said cheerfully. ‘Anything you like.’

Isabela nodded towards the inkpot on the table. ‘Perhaps you could even read out some of what it was you were writing when I came in earlier.’

Varric coughed. ‘Er – I don’t think Daisy would want to know, Rivaini…’

‘Oh!’ Merrill perked up. ‘Was it “The Templar And The Blood Mage”?’

Isabela laughed. ‘Come on, Varric. Don’t be shy.’

Merrill giggled. ‘It was, wasn’t it, Varric?’

‘Daisy,’ Varric was genuinely surprised, ‘why the good mood all of a sudden? I thought you weren’t happy about being the heroine in my new romance.’ Which, come to think of it, had also come as a surprise to Varric – he’d always assumed Merrill would have been over the moon at being the centre of one of his stories, given that she loved them so much. Now he wasn’t sure what to think.

Fortunately for him, Merrill smiled and shook her head. ‘It’s fine, Varric. Well, I was a bit shocked at first, but I suppose it’s flattering that you’ve included me in one of your stories. Creators, I never thought I’d ever be interesting enough to write about. Normally my life is so dull. Like a stale, dry biscuit.’

‘Awww, Daisy. That’s not true.’ Varric was touched that Merrill was being so good-humoured and forgiving about the whole thing. Not like Carver had at all. ‘You are most certainly not dull.’

‘But it’s true. Compared to Isabela…’ Merrill clapped her hands excitedly. ‘Isabela’s life has been so exciting! The adventures, the duels, the passionate love affairs…’

‘Awww, Kitten,’ Isabela put down her bottle of ale, ‘that’s very sweet of you, but you don’t want my life. You have a good heart, and you deserve better.’ Her amber eyes twinkled. ‘Speaking of deserving better, I understand your very own Ser Carrem continues to make you happy?’

Merrill giggled. ‘Isabela! Not in front of Varric!’

Varric laughed. ‘I’ll just have to make it up, then. Though, with the way Junior stormed in and shouted at me earlier…’

Merrill’s face fell, and she stared at Varric. ‘Carver? He was here?’

‘Yup, Daisy, he was here. Your boyfriend rather _overreacted_ to my latest serial. Made a few threats, too – he even threatened to burn every copy he came across,’ said Varric in an offended tone. ‘You’d have thought he’d know by now not to mess with storytellers – never know what they’ll say about you.’

Merrill fidgeted. ‘Carver’s just worried about the templars, Varric. That’s all.’

‘I dunno, Daisy. I think a romance novel is a trivial thing to worry about in light of any other concerns he has. Don’t you think?’

‘Well, ye-es,’ Merrill chirped, ‘but that doesn’t stop him worrying so much about these things. But do not worry, Varric, I’m sure he’ll calm down and see the funny side of it after a while. I did! I’m sure Carver will too.’

Isabela snorted.

‘Well, I sure hope so,’ Varric said. ‘Bianca was very upset. She was even prepared to put an arrow clean through your boyfriend’s head, even though it makes her sad to turn on her friends.’ He patted the crossbow fondly.

‘Oh,’ Merrill’s eyes grew rounder, and her little mouth turned down at the corners, making her look like a particularly sad, pleading kitten. ‘Tell Bianca I’m so sorry about Carver, and that I’m very grateful she spared him.’

‘I’m sure Bianca will accept your gratitude, Daisy,’ said Varric amiably. ‘Now, why don’t you get a drink –’ Varric slid some coppers across the table, ‘– and then you can settle down properly for a story.’

Merrill thanked him, and headed out of his suite to order from Corff at the bar. Varric turned to look at Isabela.

‘Don’t you look at me like that, Rivaini. I know what you’re thinking.’

‘I know what you’re thinking too,’ Isabela smirked. ‘You’re plotting your revenge. Literally.’ She sniggered at the double meaning, and relaxed in her seat. ‘So. How is the great Varric Tethras about to get even with our little templar friend for his pissy attitude?’

Varric chuckled. ‘You know me too well, Rivaini. Ser Carrem has to be punished.’ He tapped his finger on the table thoughtfully. ‘I was already considering using Merrill’s spirit bolts – or maybe her lightning spells – as a kind of magical BDSM that Revill performs on him, but…’

Isabela laughed. ‘What, so every time Carver annoys you, Ser Carrem takes a lightning bolt to his cock? You make him sound like your personal voodoo doll.’

Now it was Varric’s turn to laugh. ‘Really, the things you come up with, Rivaini,’ he guffawed, shaking his head good-naturedly.

‘Well, it’s one option,’ shrugged Isabela, picking up her bottle of ale. ‘What other things did you have in mind?’

‘I was thinking more along the line of something he won’t like to hear the Gallows gossiping about. Maybe something embarrassing. Or something that’s actually true. Something more… personal.’

‘Well, I have just the thing.’ Isabela leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Merrill’s a talented mage at the best of times, and her nature magic has saved our hides on more than one occasion.’ She grinned. ‘Turns out there’s more than one use for her Ensnare spell…’


	5. ...Well, That Was Awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carver is forced to endure Gallows chat about the latest Tethras serial, Anders finds out what happens when Merrill doesn't get to ask him if he knows any dirty spells, Carver gives Merrill a massage (also, SMUT), and a certain someone finds themselves in a... compromising position.
> 
> (Don't think I wasn't tempted to summarise this chapter as 'Carver polishes his sword, Fenris brandishes his sword, and Merrill "polishes Carver's sword" etc.' But yes, I refrained.)
> 
> And yes, Carver/Merrill magic smut happened in this chapter. I really did try to keep it at bay - I was trying to write plot instead - but it refused to be cowed or silenced so in the end I just let it happen.

‘You know, I was just thinking,’ began Ser Roderick as he looked up from his book. ‘It really is just as well Ser Carrem’s not real. What would you do if one of our lot was _actually_ making love to a maleficar? Or what do you think Meredith or Cullen would do to them?’

Carver looked at him, annoyed, sword in one hand and greasy swordcloth in the other. ‘Maker, Roderick. Can’t you see I’m busy?’

Ser Roderick huffed. ‘Talking to you is like talking to a brick wall,’ he complained. ‘All duty and training and swordsmanship and nothing bloody else. Why don’t you live a little, ser? You’ve been the fastest-promoted recruit we’ve had for years. You can definitely afford to kick back and relax some. Stop kissing Cullen’s arse for a bit, and just – just _live_ a little, will you?’

‘And by live a little, you mean – what, exactly?’

‘I dunno. You never come with us to the Blooming Rose. We certainly never see you down there, anyway. Weird, ’cos I doubt you’re a blushing virgin like our good Knight-Captain. And we hardly see you down the Hanged Man either. Well, I know I don’t.’

Carver snorted. ‘And you _would_ know. Maker knows you’re down the Hanged Man often enough, Roderick.’

‘Tough enough job we’ve got, Carver, and you know it. A man’s gotta have some relief. Gotta have something to cheer himself up. Gotta have something to talk about other than work.’

‘You do enough talking for us both, Roderick. It’s not as if anything I ever say would stop you anyway.’

Ser Roderick simply shrugged. He was quite used to the young Knight-Corporal’s snappy moods, and usually he was too drunk or lyrium-addled to care. ‘Just would be nice if you could join in some of the Gallows chat for a bit. Think it’s a damn shame that someone so young doesn’t seem interested in anything else other than trying to prove himself all the time. ’S’not as if we all don’t know how good you are. No one else gets promoted to Knight-Corporal in three years. Maker, some of us were still just Templars even after a decade of service. Bloody favourite.’

Carver rolled his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d been accused of being a favourite by the others. Maker, if Ser Roderick were to bring up his background, it wouldn’t even be the first time people insinuated it conferred an advantage with Knight-Captain Cullen in particular. Cullen himself had ascended to his current position thanks to his similar view on mages to Knight-Commander Meredith, who recognised in him a kindred spirit – but that hadn’t stopped people gossiping that Carver had only been promoted because he was Ferelden-born and bred like Cullen. ‘Favourite?’ Carver scoffed. ‘Not sure if our Knight-Captain is one to take favourites.’

‘Well, the Knight-Commander definitely does. How else do you think Karras and Alrik got to Knight-Lieutenant. You’re a damn good soldier, Knight-Corporal, I’ll give you that. Everyone here knows the Maker’s blessed you with enormous talent as a swordsman, but…’

‘Well, I did join King Cailan’s army when I was fifteen,’ Carver demurred by way of interruption. Not that he didn’t appreciate the compliment, of course, but his skill as a warrior hadn’t exactly won him friends among his fellow recruits at the Gallows. ‘And I did fight at Ostagar. So I had at least three or four years of experience being a soldier when I signed up. Not like most of the new recruits.’

Ser Roderick unsteadily jabbed a finger in his direction. ‘See, I do believe that’s the most you’ve told any of us about your life before the templars. We had to find out from the Knight-Captain that you’re descended from nobility. From the Amell line, of all things. They used to be one of the most prominent noble families in Kirkwall.’

Carver shrugged. ‘I’ve never cared much for nobles and titles.’

‘Yeah, but we even had to find out from the Knight-Captain that you have a brother and you’re both the prodigal scions of the Amells returned. And that your brother reclaimed the Amell Estate for him and your mother to live in. Point is, _you_ never told us any of that stuff. All _you_ ever told anyone was that your family came here from Ferelden as refugees to escape the Blight. _That’s_ what I mean. All you ever seem to care about is your duty and training.’

‘Don’t see what’s wrong with that.’

‘Well, it ain’t enough if you wanna gain respect among your fellow recruits. You’ll learn that soon enough, boy.’

Carver held the sword to the light to inspect it, then rubbed off a speck of dirt on the blade. ‘I doubt me talking more about my family would help me gain respect with anyone,’ he retorted. _Definitely not in my case_ , he added silently.

Ser Roderick, however, made a noise of exasperation. ‘That’s not what I meant, ser, and you know it,’ he said, followed by a hiccup. ‘Just ’cos you’re a Knight-Corporal now doesn’t mean you have to be all standoffish towards everyone – you’re allowed to join in the banter sometimes, you know. Would be nice, actually.’

‘Let me know when you’ve finished lecturing me, Roderick. As I said, I’m busy.’

Ser Roderick shook his head sadly. ‘You were alright when you first joined,’ he lamented. ‘Got all you new recruits high on _aquae lucidius_ for a couple of days; got you all down the Hanged Man trying to do the Chant as a drunken round song – last time any of us saw you down the Hanged Man, you were doing body shots off some weird elf with tattoos on her face. An’ that was months ago. It’s like you don’t even know how to have fun anymore.’

Carver inhaled sharply at the mention of the last time Ser Roderick saw him in the Hanged Man, but fortunately the other templar didn’t notice. Nevertheless, Carver eyed him defensively. ‘I _said_ , I’m busy.’

Ser Roderick grumbled. ‘Fine. I suppose I’ll get back to my reading my book.’ He held up his copy of ‘The Templar And The Blood Mage’, a dog-eared and bound bundle of papers embodying the serial so far. ‘Fancy reading this after I’m done, p’raps?’

Carver shook his head, and inspected his sword again. ‘I’ve got better things to do than read Varric’s poncy romance novels, thanks.’

‘Well, maybe you should. Maybe then you won’t be so uptight about everything.’

Carver glared. ‘I’ve told you before, Roderick. I’m really not interested.’

‘So you keep saying. Everyone in the Gallows is talking about it – the ladies in particular _love_ it – and you’re not even slightly curious?’

‘No.’

Ser Roderick shrugged and returned to his book. Carver slung his gleaming sword over his shoulder and gratefully seized the opportunity to leave him to it. He needed to get himself ready, anyway, for he was meeting Merrill at the estate tonight. He hoped Garrett and Anders would be well out of the way – or at least sufficiently distracted enough to stay out of _his_ way.

As Carver strode through the Gallows courtyard on his way to the templar quarters, he couldn’t help hearing snippets of conversation and hushed giggling from small groups of templars bent over the reading material they were holding; he didn’t need to ask what it was. He scowled, and carried on marching towards his sleeping quarters, eventually encountering two female templars ambling down the narrow corridor ahead of him. Ser Moira and Ser Ruvena strolled at a leisurely pace while they gossiped, seemingly unaware that Carver was fast coming up behind them. Carver contemplated whether he should simply push past them when he caught up to them, or politely interrupt their conversation well in advance to give them time to make way for him, but then he got within earshot of what they were saying.

‘Tethras’s serial is _definitely_ getting more steamy,’ Ruvena was saying. ‘But it makes me wonder how he comes up with all this stuff.’

‘I know!’ Moira agreed. ‘He’s got a heck of an imagination. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as nature magic until Revill started tying Ser Carrem to the bed with it and –’

‘Excuse me,’ Carver interrupted sharply, glaring as the two ladies ahead of him jumped, startled by his loud voice. ‘May I pass?’

‘So sorry, Ser Carver,’ Ruvena quickly apologised as she and Moira scuttled to one side to let him through. Carver was so furious he stomped past them without any acknowledgement of thanks, leaving the ladies in his wake to wonder what Ser Carver was so red in the face about. But Carver wasn’t listening to their reactions; he was preoccupied by the conversation he’d just overheard, which had left him stunned and confused. How in Thedas did Varric know that had been exactly what he and Merrill had last got up to in bed, anyway?

***

It had been a slow day at the clinic, and frankly _that_ was the only reason Anders had agreed to step out with Hawke in the first place. Collecting Dalish tattoo ink for Solivitus at the Gallows wasn’t really something that Anders would normally consider important enough to leave his post for; but, he reasoned, surely a trip to the Sundermount for this ink and back wouldn’t take that long. Well, that and the fact that Garrett had asked him, of course. It was pretty hard to pass up any opportunity to spend time with his gorgeous lover, even if that opportunity might involve Anders having to do plenty of healing later. (Not that Anders minded about that bit, of course. Garrett was every bit as scrumptious out of his armour as in it.) Their relationship was still very recent – Anders often had to pinch himself because he still couldn’t believe they were actually together, that this was real; never in his wildest dreams did he ever expect that three long years of yearning for this man would culminate in the love he’d hoped for but was convinced he couldn’t have – but now that they were together, Anders was determined to make the most of this honeymoon period… and that meant saying ‘yes’ whenever Garrett asked him to come along on an errand, no matter how inconsequential.

If he’d known that Fenris and Merrill would also be coming along, however, it would have been a very different story.

‘Thank you _so_ much for bringing me along, Hawke! It’s such a lovely day to be out and about! Don’t you think so, Fenris?’

Fenris looked like he would rather be anywhere else, and be doing any _thing_ else, than engaging in Merrill’s cheery chatter. ‘What’s so good about it?’

‘Well, the sun is shining…? And Hawke is taking us out of Kirkwall for a bit? We can listen to the birds singing and frolic among the flowers!’

Fenris pointedly didn’t look at her; Anders, walking behind him, couldn’t see his expression, but he was sure Fenris was rolling his eyes as he spoke. ‘“Frolic among the flowers”,’ he quoted, voice dripping with derision. ‘Tell me, Hawke, how do you ever manage to take this witch seriously?’

Hawke chuckled. ‘And all my life my family kept telling me I don’t take _anything_ seriously,’ he grinned at Fenris as the elf drew level with him. ‘It’s so _refreshing_ to hear a different complaint.’

How and why Hawke tolerated Fenris at all was completely beyond Anders, and why Fenris didn’t express his displeasure more often about Hawke’s light-hearted deflections was also something the healer had failed to fathom. Not that Anders minded his lover’s levity anymore, really, but Merrill – not to mention Merrill’s total lack of remorse or shame over her use of blood magic – was a topic Anders wished Hawke _did_ take more seriously. He cleared his throat.

‘I hate to admit it, love, but Fenris has a point.’

‘Do you think we’ll get to see bunnies on the Sundermount?’ Merrill chirped from behind them, and Anders almost admired her ability to be so wilfully oblivious to anyone’s dislike, disrespect or dismissal of her. Maybe she simply didn’t care. ‘The mountain is much better in the sunshine! Not quite as creepy. Although I’m a bit worried about meeting the clan again. Are you sure it was a good idea to bring me along, Hawke?’

‘Is it ever,’ Anders hissed through clenched teeth, but as expected, Merrill just ignored him and chattered on.

‘I mean, Master Ilen was so cross with me the last time I spoke to him. Although I don’t think he would be too happy if you ask him for our tattoo ink. Especially as you’re a _shemlen_. And Dalish tattoo ink is rather precious to the clan, we wouldn’t just hand it out so easily, even to the elves. And you’re a _shemlen_. And I’m rambling again, Hawke, sorry…’

Sometimes Anders couldn’t help wondering if Merrill was really this stupid, or if she was secretly having them all on. Much to his annoyance, though, Hawke turned his head and smiled indulgently at her.

‘Merrill, you’ll be fine,’ he said, neat white teeth gleaming through his neat dark beard. The sunlight caught his amber eyes, and despite his irritation, Anders’s heart jumped at just how handsome his lover looked. ‘You’re on some business with me. The clan won’t bother us, I promise.’

‘ _Ma serannas_ , Hawke,’ she said, gratefully. ‘I know I will be alright with you there, _lethallin_.’

‘We should move on,’ Fenris’s deep voice cut in, and Anders silently agreed. They were close to the city gates now, and soon they would be out of Kirkwall and on their trek to the Sundermount – a good opportunity to get some fresh air, Anders thought idly to himself. Perhaps it was a good thing that Hawke had called on him after all, despite the company… although the last time Hawke had called on him in the clinic to ask for him to accompany him on an errand – a few days ago, in fact – Hawke had had Merrill in tow, where she’d apparently wanted to ask him something before what seemed to be a horde of Darktown’s sickest invalids had beaten a path to his door. Hawke had stopped to help with basic healing for a while before he and Merrill took off, leaving Anders to deal with the clinic’s new patients and giving him an excuse to stay behind.

Though now Anders thought about it, while he still didn’t know what it was Merrill had wanted to ask him that day, there was definitely something he wanted to ask _her_ about that day while he had been distracted and rushed off his feet healing the needy…

‘Merrill,’ he started, once they were well past the city gates. ‘Were you trying to look at my grimoire the other day?’

Merrill squeaked and whipped her head round to look at him, her round green eyes wide in an attempt to look innocent. ‘Me? What? No! When?’

‘At my clinic. While I was talking to Hawke. I saw you looking in one of my books. You know, those are private.’

‘I know, that’s why I—’ She paused, then sighed, resigned. ‘Oh, fine. I admit it. I was hoping you'd have, um, _dirty spells_.’

‘Dirty spells?’ Anders asked incredulously. What on earth was she…?

‘You know! To, um, make things more exciting. Oh, I shouldn't have said anything.’

Anders was even more stunned. ‘More exciting? For you and—’

‘Stop,’ Hawke interrupted them forcefully. He wheeled round on all of them, ashen-faced, eyes pleading. ‘Just... stop right there.’

‘…I don't think I want to know,’ Anders choked out, his brain catching up with the conversation at last. And it was true. He really _didn’t_ want to know. His mind flitted briefly to Varric’s latest erotic romance serial, and he suddenly felt wholeheartedly glad he hadn’t read any more since that fateful day when he found out that…

No. No. He _really_ didn’t want to know.

But whatever else Anders didn’t want to know was gone from his mind when he noticed the gang on the sandy road up ahead, whose eyes seemed fixed on their party. They looked like they could be slavers, although at least one of them was in Tevinter robes. They approached, fists clenched menacingly. _Trouble_. Hawke stopped, and the rest of their party stopped alongside him.

‘Hunters,’ Fenris spat. His voice was disdainful, but Anders thought he could detect some apprehension there too, and – was that a touch of fear as well?

It was when an enraged Fenris started glowing blue and drawing his sword that Anders, unslinging his staff from his back, wistfully reproached himself that it had been way too much to expect a quick and simple trip to Sundermount after all.

 ***

‘And then Fenris said something like “What does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?” and then Anders shouted at him, and Hawke and Fenris had the most terrible row,’ Merrill said. Carver, equally unclothed, sat upright on the bed at right angles to where she lay, and smoothed his hands down one leg, from her knee to her ankle, then back again; when he finished, he laid her leg across his lap – joining the other leg already lying across his lap – so that he could massage her thigh.

‘What, about mages?’ Carver asked, secretly hoping he wouldn’t be asked to comment. He ran his hands up to the tops of her thighs, massaged the muscles there with his thumbs, then swept his hands back down to her knees, and back up to the tops of her thighs again. Her skin felt particularly sleek and soft under his palms tonight; he could smell the delicate herbal scent of the soap she’d used. Merrill sighed happily at his touch.

‘Well, yes,’ she continued, ‘and then Fenris stormed off. You know, I really don’t think it was a good idea for three of us mages to accompany Fenris when he was trying to find the Tevinter magister who’s hunting him. Or, well, the magister’s apprentice, anyway. Three mages and Fenris – I think he must have felt that we were ganging up on him.’

‘I’ll bet.’ Carver ran his hands all the way back down to her ankle again as he spoke. Not for the first time he wondered if his brother was deliberately mage-baiting Fenris; it hadn’t escaped Carver’s notice that Garrett had a tendency to drag Anders or Merrill along – often both – whenever he wanted to take Fenris on a job. Carver had never agreed that it was ever a good idea to take an all-mage party on a job involving a magic-hating ex-slave; but then it seemed Garrett was the ultimate troll. Predictably, Fenris would spew some anti-mage views that Garrett, Anders or Merrill would disagree with, or even find offensive, and then a row would break out. The one time Carver had gone along on a job with Garrett, Anders and Fenris to the Wounded Coast, they’d all wound up arguing so badly that Fenris and Carver had stormed off back to Kirkwall separately to Anders and Garrett. (Though to be honest, it was more that Anders stormed off separately and Garrett had run after him.) Merrill was never quite as argumentative as the other two – not because she agreed with what Fenris said, but she at least tried to be sympathetic to what Fenris had been through, what with him having been a magister’s slave; it was one of the things Carver appreciated about her, that she made an effort to understand a person rather than rush to judge them. Perhaps, Carver considered, because she wished her own clan had shown her the same kindness. He gently caressed the inside of Merrill’s thigh, all the way up to her groin, and then back to her knee. ‘How does this feel, darling?’

‘Mmmm,’ she replied, a relaxed expression on her face. She reached towards him and idly traced the mabari tattoo at his hip with her fingers.

‘Right. Let me do your other leg, and then I’ll massage your back. How does that sound?’

‘That sounds amazing,’ Merrill sighed, as Carver proceeded to massage her other leg. It had been exactly what she’d needed, when she’d trudged back to the Hawke Estate after spending the afternoon in a dank slavers’ cave fighting reanimated corpses, shades, demons, slavers and Hadriana; aching and weary, the three mages had traipsed the whole journey back to Kirkwall dripping in blood and ash and ichor and other gunk Merrill didn’t really want to think about. As soon as he crossed the threshold of his home, Hawke had ordered baths be run for himself, Anders and Merrill – who was late for her meeting with Carver at the Estate thanks to the surprise attack on Fenris – and while she was enjoying her long, hot soak, enjoying the way the soap had bubbled the water into a luxurious foam, Carver had taken it upon himself to massage her in the bath and the bedroom while she chatted about her day.

Once he’d finished massaging her other leg, he pulled her onto her front and smoothed his hands over her back, paying particular attention to the knots in her muscles, gently working them out with his fingers, alternating between light and firmer strokes on her body. Merrill turned her head towards him, pressing her cheek into the pillow, noting his warm gaze as he tried to brush all signs of tension away. She closed her eyes, smiling, and relaxed into his touch, the movement of his hands soothing as they swept up and down her body.

‘There.’ He dropped a kiss between her shoulder blades to finish. ‘Better?’

‘Much better,’ she sighed, as Carver lay down beside her. ‘ _Ma serannas_.’

He took her in his arms, and lightly pressed his lips to her forehead, tenderly treasuring her, making her feel warm and fuzzy inside; and after a day being confronted with the horrors of Fenris’s past, Merrill really needed that feeling right now. She rubbed her nose lightly against his.

‘ _Ma vhenan_. Do you not want me to return the favour?’

He smiled at her. ‘Some other time, beautiful. Don’t feel you have to – with the day you’ve had, I just thought you’d like it if I pampered you for a bit.’

She nestled happily against him.

‘ _Ma’arlath_ ,’ she breathed.

‘ _Ma’arlath_ ,’ he repeated softly. He didn’t know what it meant, and he knew she knew that, but saying it felt right.

And then Merrill was on top of him, pinning him down with her hands; her thin arms were deceptively strong.

‘I _will_ return the favour,’ she told him as she hovered over his hips, emerald eyes sparkling mischievously.

Carver laughed as the elf sat on him. ‘Hey! You’re supposed to be tired after a long day fighting!’

She giggled. ‘Well, I was. But not too tired,’ she said, lifting her hands off his body and conjuring little fireballs in the palm of her hands, ‘for this.’ Carver’s eyes widened.

‘Don’t worry, _ma vhenan_ ,’ she assured him, flames sinking back into her hands as if nothing had happened, ‘I won’t hurt you.’

Merrill placed her hands on his torso, and started to massage them over his chest and stomach, imitating the long, sweeping strokes up and down his body that he had used on her. She felt the familiar energy flow from the Fade and focused on manipulating it precisely to her will, with the most delicate and careful control. The temperature of her hands switched from hot to cold and back again, exciting and soothing, relaxing and arousing; and Carver had never appreciated magic this much – certainly not in this way – before. Merrill smiled as he closed his eyes, sighing blissfully; she ran her hands over his chest, enjoying the feel of his smooth, taut pectoral muscles, and then over his upper arms, which seemed to have grown bigger since she last saw him. She shuffled down his body to position herself over his legs, her hands trailing down his torso to rest on either side of his cock. Carver’s eyes flew open, and he looked down at her in surprise.

‘Merrill,’ he started, ‘what –’

Merrill beamed at him, then bent forward and darted her tongue out to swipe the head of his cock.

‘Merrill,’ he said, feeling his cock twitch, ‘it’s OK for you to relax tonight if you want. Don’t feel you need to –’

‘I want to, Carver,’ she interrupted him. ‘I don’t see you very often, and I want to.’

She bent forward again and ran her tongue in long strokes up and down his cock, similar to the strokes her hands massaged his body with, noting with satisfaction how his cock stirred. Now to use her magic, just as she had done with her hands. She felt the mana swirl inside her, hers to command; and she frowned in concentration as she directed her tongue to be precisely the right temperature of cold, then warm, then cold again as she licked his length, up and down, the trail of wetness over his shaft alternating between heat and chill, eliciting a strangled groan from his throat. She took him in her mouth, sending the tiniest of electricity sparks from her tongue to his now semi-hard manhood; somewhere above her head Carver hissed and jolted. She worked her lips up and down his penis, carefully controlling her wet mouth between heat and chill and the occasional faint spark until he was fully hard. She exclaimed in surprise when he thrust involuntarily into her mouth; when he bucked again she held his hips down on the bed, firm and unexpectedly strong, as if to say _let me take control_ , and Carver was more than happy to surrender to her. But oh, it was so hard not to move when she was wrapped around his cock, infusing her mouth with the most exquisitely controlled magic specially designed to make him hard and make him howl. He groaned and flailed as his pre-cum leaked into her mouth, and Merrill moaned so sweetly as she tasted it on her tongue, ceasing her magic briefly to enjoy it. She sucked hard as she moved her mouth up his shaft until the head popped out of her lips, where she kissed it before sitting up, observing the writhing templar with a satisfied look on her face.

‘ _Fuck_ , Merrill,’ Carver choked out, fists clenched around the pillow next to his head, but Merrill simply leaned in and took his glistening erection in her mouth again. This time, her tongue was coated with what seemed like thousands of tiny electrical sparks; it tickled as she wrapped it around him, bobbing her head up and down while her hands restrained Carver from bucking into her mouth. Gradually, the alternating of heat and chill from her tongue died down, but the electrical tempest built up inside her mouth; and as she sucked hard on his cock, throat closing around the head, Carver couldn’t help trying to thrust into her as he approached orgasm.

‘Fuck,’ he gasped again, shaking under the slender hands pressing him down, ‘I’m gonna – come –’

And then he came, crying out to the Maker and Merrill as he climaxed inside her mouth, hearing her satisfied moans from those lips clamped firmly around him. His cum squirted with each jerk of his hips, and he could feel her giggle of delight vibrate against his cock as he spurted in her mouth and down her throat. Merrill wrapped her tongue around his head, capturing each load of slightly salty ejaculate he pumped into her; his cum tingled on her tongue and down her throat in a way that made her desperately want more, and she swallowed each load hungrily, desperate not to let any of that precious cum spill as she drank him up. Even after he was spent, she greedily lapped his flagging penis, licking it clean of any traces of cum, licking him with such an urgency and frenzy that Carver even huffed out a weak laugh and asked if she was enjoying herself; and it was only after she was done that she realised she recognised that particular tingle, that almost addictive tang in his semen as she’d swallowed it down…

‘Carver,’ Merrill began, moving up the bed to lie face-to-face with him, ‘have you been taking lyrium?’

‘Mmmm, yeah,’ he answered, stretching his arms, feeling content. ‘All templars have to. Helps with our abilities. And magic resistance. Had some earlier today, in fact. Why do you ask, darling?’

‘I tasted it on you. Your – _fluid_ – was absolutely full of it. And I swallowed _all_ of it. I can even feel its effect on my mana right now.’

Carver chuckled. ‘So that’s why you were so enthusiastic about licking me clean earlier.’

‘Mmmm, and it was beau-ti-ful,’ she agreed in her Dalish lilt. ‘But, oh, Carver. Please be careful, _ma vhenan_. You know how addictive and dangerous lyrium is. I don’t want you to end up like Samson by the docks.’

‘I am being careful, I promise. I know I have to take it to enhance my templar abilities, but I’m trying to be as sparing with it as I can. Father explained all about lyrium addiction to us, so I don’t take it as often as I should, but with the checks the superiors do on us I can’t really get away with not taking it at all.’

Merrill frowned, but said nothing more. Carver swallowed. Not for the first time he wished he hadn’t joined the Templar Order three years ago, and while he usually managed to ignore his regrets, to squash them right down where he didn’t have to acknowledge them, there were occasions where they came bubbling to the surface. This was one of them. ‘Merrill. Are you – are you cross with me?’

Merrill put her arms around him. ‘No,’ she said, truthfully, ‘not at all. It’s just that – I wish…’ She trailed off. ‘It gets harder to send you back to the Gallows each time.’

‘I know, love, I know.’

Carver simply held her, not knowing what else he could say. Merrill shook her head slightly as if to clear it, and then spoke again with a forced cheerfulness.

‘Anyway,’ she said, sounding determined to change the subject, ‘how was it? Just now? With my mouth, I mean,’ she added, blushing. ‘Did you like it?’

‘Loved it,’ Carver admitted, grateful for a happier topic. ‘It was amazing.’

‘I thought I’d try something a bit different,’ she smiled. ‘Nature magic last time, a bit of elemental and primal magic this time. Although we don’t have to keep using magic in bed if you don’t want. I don’t mind either way.’

‘Whatever you feel like doing, Merrill, it’s fine with me. I – I just never knew magic could be used that way.’

Merrill laughed. ‘Oh, there’s lots of things you never knew about magic, Carver Hawke,’ she told him, grinning wickedly. She stood up, pulling him up with her as she rose from the bed. ‘Maybe we can even find a use for some of those templar powers you told me about,’ she chirped, and now it was his turn to blush. She squeezed his hand. ‘Shall we go to the bathroom and get ourselves cleaned up a bit?’

***

Finally, they had left. Varric exhaled so hard he almost collapsed, and emerged silently from the wardrobe next to the bed, where he had whipped inside and hid when Carver and Merrill had unexpectedly entered the room. Not that he had meant to peep on them when they were _in flagrante delicto_ ; he’d sneaked into the Estate through an open window, not wishing to be seen calling on Hawke by all of Hightown. He heard voices that didn’t sound like either Hawke or Anders, and rather than explain why he was there to a potential stranger (Hawke was quite used to Isabela sneaking in through the window by now, so Varric assumed Hawke wouldn’t mind about himself either) he thought it was better to stay out of sight until the interlopers had gone. So he hid, intending to lurk unseen until they passed, and then he could sneak past them and wait for Hawke to discuss – in secret – the news he’d heard on Bartrand. How in Thedas was he to know he’d be greeted with a naked Daisy and Junior? And how in Thedas was he able to sneak past them on the bed considering he was in the wardrobe, eye level with the lock chink, and a quick scan of the room through the keyhole told him that even at his sneakiest he wouldn’t be able to get to the door without them seeing him? So he stayed, feeling… a little uncomfortable, actually, waiting patiently for Carver and Merrill to leave the room – in fact, for most of it he was terrified they _wouldn’t_ leave the room, and he’d be stuck there in the wardrobe like a pervert – all the while wishing he was Isabela, who had no such shame about watching her friends’ bedroom activities either from a closet or even out in the open.

Varric took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. That really _had_ been an ordeal, actually; with Bartrand on his mind, the very last thing he had intended to do tonight was spy on an intimate moment. Especially between _those two_ , of all people. Daisy would probably be very disappointed, and Junior would probably try to kill him.

On the other hand, thought Varric as he left the room, he could look on the bright side. He now had more material for his erotic romance serial.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... well... when I first conceived this idea (and started writing it), I had originally envisioned it as a comedy, with lots of humorous and possibly farcical situations. That doesn't appear to be happening, plus some of the stuff I later wrote turned out to be far more serious (and slightly more angsty) than I was expecting or intending it to be.
> 
> I've been trying to keep it as light and humorous and comedic as possible, but I think I'm going to have to accept defeat. It's just not coming, despite my original premise. I apologise to anyone who is disappointed.
> 
> I'm going to carry on with this as best as I can, but I think I'm just going to have to let the story take me where it takes me, and accept that it's taken me there, rather than trying to force it to be something it doesn't want to be. 
> 
> Thank you everyone who's read it so far, and for those of you who are enjoying it, I hope you continue to enjoy it, and I hope I still write something worth your while! :-) x


	6. Not All Sunshine and Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aveline deals with an arrest, Carver receives some flowers, Hawke finds out what happened to the missing templar Emeric, and Varric gets to deliver his news about Bartrand.
> 
> (Or: things start to take a slightly darker turn from this chapter onwards. Well, we are in Act 2, after all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, it's back! (After an entire year's hiatus, sorry about that.) Thanks to everyone who's still reading at this stage and I'm so, so, so sorry this took me so long to update! Shorter chapter than usual, but I wanted to get something posted up - especially as I've had that initial scene in my head since last March. Hope you enjoy!

Aveline leaned forward on her desk, shaking her head. If Brennan’s report was correct, this was going to be more complicated than she thought. She exhaled a long, loud sigh, and looked back up at the guardswoman standing before her, patiently waiting for a response with her hands behind her back.

‘So… this elf you found in the Viscount’s personal gardens. What was she doing there?’

Brennan shrugged her shoulders. ‘She claimed she was just picking flowers. Still held onto them even while I arrested her. But with what happened with the poison gas incident in Lowtown – _saar-qamek_ , was it? – who knows what’s really going on with some of these alienage elves.’

Somehow, Aveline thought to herself, she suspected this particular elf _wasn’t_ plotting another Lowtown riot, but that didn’t mean it didn’t look highly suspicious to anyone who didn’t know the elf in question – if the elf was indeed who Aveline thought it was.

‘Bring her in, Brennan,’ Aveline eventually said. ‘I’d like to question her personally.’

The other woman nodded, saluted, and marched out of the room. Aveline slumped into her chair, rubbing her forehead. Becoming captain of the guard had been a difficult and stressful enough job as it was, what with the mess Jeven had left behind that she had spent the past three years cleaning up; but this job (even if Aveline would never admit that she secretly enjoyed how tough it was) was often made much more difficult whenever her friends were involved. Aveline’s own budding relationship with the guardsman Donnic Hendyr was a further complicating factor; the last thing she wanted to be accused of was of letting her own personal relationships get in the way of the job she cared so much about.

Brennan promptly returned, with another guard and herself dragging a pale thin elf, wild-haired and wide-eyed, in their wake. Aveline groaned inwardly, dismayed at having been proved right; but on the outside she gave nothing away.

‘Thank you. Leave us.’

The guards bowed their head slightly, and departed. Aveline watched them close the door of her office as they left, then turned to face the confused-looking elf before her.

‘Merrill,’ she groaned, slumping back into her desk. ‘What have you done this time?’

‘I got lost,’ Merrill chirped, as if the explanation was as simple as that.

Aveline stared at the flowers Merrill still clutched in her hand, a hastily-bunched bouquet of deep red roses that could only have come from one place in this entire city. ‘You got lost,’ she repeated, disbelief in her voice. ‘In the Viscount’s gardens.’

‘Oh! Was that where I was? I _thought_ all those guards looked a bit cross!’

‘Of course they were,’ Aveline said, drily. ‘Why did you think Brennan arrested you?’

‘Was I being arrested?’ Merrill seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Oh! Right. I thought she was just being helpful and showing me the way out. I _did_ wonder why she brought me here.’

‘Merrill,’ Aveline sighed. ‘What were you doing there?’

‘I was on my way home from Hightown Market,’ Merrill replied. ‘I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere, because I didn’t mean to end up in the Viscount’s gardens, although… they were very pretty, and I’d never seen them before.’

‘That’s because people aren’t supposed to go in there,’ Aveline said. ‘How on earth did you wind up in the Viscount’s gardens?’

‘I don’t know! It just happened!’

The last time Merrill had used that excuse, Aveline recalled, was when she had somehow wound up in Aveline’s bedroom in the barracks – on a night when Donnic had been staying over. Apparently, Merrill had had no idea how she’d got lost that time, either.

‘So if you didn’t mean to end up in the Viscount’s gardens,’ Aveline said, voice patient, ‘why did you pick those flowers?’

‘Oh! These,’ Merrill said, looking down at the roses in her hands as if noticing them for the first time. ‘Um… I didn’t know where I was, but I saw these pretty flowers, and while I was there I thought I might as well gather some for… well, for…’ Merrill hesitated a second, clearly thinking hard, ‘for – your office! Yes, that’s right. I thought I would… brighten up your office a bit!’

Aveline fought to stop the smirk that threatened to break her serious demeanour. ‘Merrill. I don’t believe you.’

‘Well, you’ll have to,’ Merrill said, looking a little cross now. ‘I got lost, I ended up in the Viscount’s gardens, so I decided to pick flowers.’

‘Oh, I believe you about getting lost,’ Aveline said, ‘though only the Maker knows how you manage it… but – Merrill. Pretending that you picked flowers for me isn’t going to get you out of this situation any quicker.’

Merrill looked crestfallen. ‘Oh.’

‘But,’ Aveline reached out her hand to take the bunch of roses from her, ‘if you’re offering, then I am happy to take them.’

‘No!’ Merrill looked stricken, panicked; she shoved the roses behind her back as Aveline withdrew her hand in surprise, ‘You can’t! – I mean, of course, yes, you can have them,’ she finished glumly, a guilty look crossing her features, ‘I mean, I was hoping to hold onto them, but… well. Your office does need brightening up, I suppose…’

Aveline raised an eyebrow.

‘Not that I meant it like that!’ Merrill cried, eyes round in horror at the realisation of what she’d just said. ‘I didn’t mean that your office was bad, I just… I’ll shut up now, shut up Merrill, you’re making it worse…’

‘Merrill,’ Aveline said gently. ‘You don’t have to lie to me. You may have to pay the gardener some damages for the flowers, and I may have to speak to Seneschal Bran to get this smoothed over, but I’m only trying to establish all the facts so that I know who to – _persuade_ ,’ and here Aveline made a face; this wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to look the other way when it came to Hawke or any of their other companions, ‘– in order to overlook this. So. You got lost in the Viscount’s gardens, saw the roses, and decided to pick them for yourself…’

‘No,’ blurted Merrill, before realising what she said, ‘I mean – yes. Yes. They were for – me,’ she finished, red in the face with embarrassment.

Aveline raised an eyebrow. If she was honest, it didn’t really matter who the roses were for – it would be tough enough to justify setting free the vandal who’d ruined the Viscount’s prized rose bush – but she couldn’t see the point of Merrill needing to lie to her about them.

Aveline sighed again, deciding she wouldn’t push the subject. ‘OK, Merrill,’ she eventually said, ‘it doesn’t matter. I know you probably meant no harm, but I can’t be sure that the Viscount or Seneschal Bran will see it that way. I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep you here a little longer until I’ve convinced them that you’re not worth locking up. I’ll negotiate your fine for damaging his gardens, but I think that’s the best I can do for you. Clear?’

Merrill nodded, visibly relaxing. ‘Thank you, Aveline.’

‘But Merrill – try not to end up there again. I don’t know if I can pull in more favours for this sort of thing next time.’

Merrill nodded again, then took the bouquet out from behind her back. ‘Aveline,’ she began, shyly, ‘would you mind too much if I asked you for another favour?’

Aveline fixed her with a hard stare. ‘Merrill. I think I’m going to be doing enough favours for you today, don’t you?’

‘Oh, this isn’t like that!’ Merrill said cheerfully, and despite herself, Aveline couldn’t help softening. ‘I was just wondering – would you or any of the other guards be able to deliver this bouquet to the Gallows?’

***

‘That’s the second mage that’s gone missing this week,’ Knight Captain Cullen groaned. ‘As if we don’t have enough problems to be dealing with, what with rumours of some sort of mage underground spiriting them away; it’s only been a few months since we lost Ser Alrik and his complement of men, and we can’t hire recruits fast enough to replace them.’

Carver and Moira exchanged a look. Ser Alrik was hardly missed by many in the Gallows, though they would never say so in front of Cullen; but nonetheless, the news and nature of his death had shocked everyone. ‘A demon of unknown origin’ was how the official report had put it; the scouts that had been sent to recover what remained of the bodies had also reported scorch marks and dwarven-made arrows strewn among the decomposed bodies and charred remains of uniform – it had taken a surprisingly long time to locate the missing templars, and they were eventually found in some lyrium smuggling tunnels underneath the Gallows that Carver had no idea even existed. The missing mage Ella, whom Ser Alrik was rumoured to have been pursuing, was nowhere to be found.

‘Well, with templar numbers seeming to be more depleted by the month, added to the occasional missing mage, ser, I think it’s fair to say morale in the Order is down,’ Moira observed wryly.

‘Maker’s breath. Don’t let the Knight Commander hear you say such a thing,’ Cullen exclaimed, as Moira bowed her head. ‘Our brethren sacrificed themselves doing their duty; I expect nothing less from all my knights in the same circumstances.’

‘So, about the missing mages, ser,’ Carver said, anxious to get the conversation back on track, ‘do we have any idea where they’ve gone?’

‘None at all,’ Cullen replied. ‘Vanished into thin air. Just like Ella.’

Carver nodded sympathetically. He remembered how surprised he had been that Ella, a popular, cheerful fifteen-year-old of Rivaini heritage, had disappeared; for the first few weeks he’d been worried sick, guilty that he’d failed her by not keeping her safe and in the Gallows where everyone knew where she was. She was the sort of girl Bethany would have taken a shine to, if she had still been alive; and it was for that reason he’d tried to be slightly more protective of her than the other mages in his charge. Even if Bethany – his other half, the sunnier side of himself – wasn’t here, Carver would still do the things he knew would make her smile, would still protect the things and people he knew she would care about. That’s what twins were for, after all.

Carver took a deep breath, trying to clear his head of the maudlin emotions that momentarily flooded him over Bethany and how much he missed her, before they threatened to spill out in the most embarrassing ways in the Knight Captain’s office. Fortunately, Cullen’s voice cut through his brooding thoughts.

‘The worst of it is, that’s not the worst news we’ve had this week,’ Cullen said, expression grim. ‘Ser Moira, would you like to inform Ser Carver what we’ve just discussed?’

‘Well, hopefully it’s just nothing,’ Moira said, and Carver was surprised to hear her voice crack slightly. ‘But… Emeric’s gone missing.’

‘Emeric?’ Carver hadn’t spoken to the older templar much – although Carver remembered him from when Garrett had investigated the deaths of two women some years ago – but he knew the man had been Moira’s mentor when she had been a recruit, and that he was a very staid and reasonable sort. ‘He hasn’t just… I dunno, decided to retire early, has he?’

‘This is not the time for jokes, Ser Carver,’ Cullen said sternly, as Moira stared at him, aghast. ‘Emeric has been missing for several days now, and with our numbers down and the Knight Commander’s order to hunt for the two missing mages, we cannot commit the resources to find him.’

‘Oh. Sorry,’ Carver said, face hot. _The one time Garrett’s stupid sense of humour rubs off on me, it has to be the most inappropriate time_ , he grumbled inwardly. ‘So… what are we gonna do?’

‘We have decided to employ outside help,’ Cullen continued. ‘Moira?’

‘Before Emeric left, he said he’d received a note asking him to meet at some dark alley in Lowtown,’ Moira said. ‘From your brother, in fact. The only problem is, your brother says he didn’t send Emeric any note at all, but Emeric had already left. So your brother has gone to find him.’

‘Wait.’ Carver frowned. ‘Is – is that why I’m here?’

Of all the questions Carver really wanted to ask, that one had actually been at the bottom of the list. For some reason, _What has Garrett got to do with Emeric?_ and _Why would Emeric be meeting Garrett in the first place?_ and _Who forged the note?_ weren’t the questions that came out.

‘That is why you’re here,’ Cullen confirmed. ‘Hawke is your brother, so I wondered if you knew anything.’

‘Probably as much as you do,’ Carver shrugged.

‘We know Hawke and some of his companions had helped Emeric investigate the deaths of some women here in Kirkwall, including a mage called Mharen from here in the Circle, but we thought nothing came of it,’ Moira sighed unhappily. ‘Emeric was convinced there was a serial killer on the loose in Kirkwall, but there was no evidence to prove anything. I tried to persuade him to give up when even the City Guard washed their hands of the matter and Knight Commander Meredith had to write a grovelling apology to some stuffy Hightown noble whose house they raided, but he was so stubborn, so sure he was right.’ Moira covered her face for a few seconds, before regaining her composure. ‘And now… I only hope he was wrong.’

‘If you know anything at all, Ser Carver,’ Cullen said, while Moira dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief he’d handed her, ‘you _must_ tell us. Your words could ensure Emeric’s safe return.’

Carver shook his head in regret. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told them. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything. Garrett and I… we don’t really talk. And when Mother visits me here in the Gallows she says she doesn’t really know what he gets up to much, either. I’m really sorry.’

Cullen sighed. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I suppose I have no choice but to leave it here, and pray to the Maker for Emeric’s safe return.’ He nodded at Moira, who bravely nodded back and saluted. ‘Ser Moira, you are dismissed. Ser Carver, if you could remain behind a moment.’

As soon as Moira had left the office, Carver turned back to his commanding officer. ‘I’m really sorry about Emeric,’ he repeated. ‘I swear, if I find out anything, I’ll report straight back to you, ser.’

‘Thank you, Ser Carver,’ Cullen said, ‘but I am keeping you behind for something of a, hopefully, more pleasant nature.’

Carver eyed him suspiciously.

‘I’ve received a most bizarre request from one Aveline Vallen, Kirkwall’s very own Guard Captain,’ Cullen went on, and Carver widened his eyes in surprise. ‘She has asked me to give you these in the strictest confidence, and to tell you that she’s just the messenger, they aren’t from her, and that –’ and at this point Cullen coughed in embarrassment, ‘this is just as awkward for her as it will be for me.’

And with that, Cullen handed Carver an enormous bouquet of deep red roses.

***

It was nice to be out of the barracks, thought Merrill happily as she made her way home; everyone there had been so serious with her all the time. Aveline had somehow negotiated a small fine and her ‘release from prison’, and had even promised to deliver the roses to Carver at the Gallows somehow. Merrill hoped he appreciated them; she’d been arrested for them, after all, so they had to be worth it.

And now, with the sun shining, and Hawke accompanying her home as per Aveline’s instructions, there was now no way she would manage to get lost again as usual. It was a good day.

For some reason, Hawke wasn’t as talkative as usual, and it was only when they neared the Hanged Man that he eventually said something.

‘Merrill, would you mind if we popped in here for a drink? I’ll walk you home later, I promise. I just really need a drink right now.’

‘Of course,’ Merrill said. ‘I suppose it’ll be nice to see Isabela and Varric again.’

‘Yes,’ said Hawke, stroking his beard absently. ‘I suppose it would.’

They walked down the stairs, in silence, to the building that made up their favourite watering-hole, but before Hawke pushed the door open to go inside he stopped and turned to her.

‘Do you remember the missing templar Emeric?’ Hawke asked, without preamble. ‘We found his body today in a blind alley here in Lowtown. Well, we were attacked by shades and rage demons, but when we cleared them, he was lying there on the floor. Dead.’

Merrill looked sympathetic. ‘Oh, that’s horrible,’ she said. ‘That’s so sad. He was the one who was investigating a serial killer who targeted women, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Hawke replied heavily, ‘and I think he was onto something. Apparently someone sent him a note in the Gallows, pretending to be me, asking him to meet at that alley. And, sadly, he went to this phony meeting, not knowing he was actually being led to his death at the hands of a rogue blood mage’s demons. I can’t say I wasn’t expecting this, but… as you can imagine, I’m not looking forward to telling the templars what happened.’

Merrill nodded. ‘Let’s go inside. Perhaps Varric will have a story to tell us that will cheer you up.’

Hawke looked unconvinced, but smiled warmly at the elf anyway. ‘Good idea.’ He pushed the door open, and Merrill followed him into the Hanged Man’s roaring din.

They made their way through the crowded tavern floor, Hawke drawing all eyes to him as usual, while an unfamiliar patron drunkenly lurched towards Merrill with a leer and one hand outstretched – she surreptitiously gave him a short sharp zap before he could touch her; the tavern’s regulars knew full well not to mess with _any_ of Hawke’s companions – and while Hawke smiled charmingly at everyone in the room that he passed, he seemed somewhat relieved to get to Varric’s suite, an oasis of comparative calm among the chaos.

Varric had his back to them, staring into the fire, deep in thought. At the sound of Hawke’s footsteps, he turned around.

‘Hawke, Daisy,’ he greeted them, before turning to Hawke with a serious expression. ‘Hawke. I’ve got some news. You might not want to be near anything breakable when I tell you, though…’


	7. Mysteriously Missing Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carver squirms through dinner, Varric and Hawke get drunk, and Merrill figures out how to assemble her mirror.
> 
> (And yes, there is a very small Mass Effect reference in this chapter.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Some descriptions of gore.

It was difficult enough, Carver grumbled to himself, trying to get an entire bouquet of roses to his private quarters in the Gallows without arousing interest or gossip. It had been bad enough having his own Knight Captain present them to him, much less trying to think how he could safely transport them from Cullen’s office without setting off the rest of the templars and mages gossiping.

He could, of course, always hide them in one of those large hessian sacks of flour he’d seen getting delivered to the kitchens, but that would involve going down to the kitchens to try and find an empty one without anyone seeing or questioning what he was doing. And frankly, _that_ was no better than simply carrying a huge bunch of roses across the Gallows completely uncovered.

He could also pretend they were for someone else, and that he, like Aveline and Cullen, was simply the delivery boy. But he couldn’t really do that to Merrill (assuming she was behind them), after she’d taken the trouble to ensure they were delivered to the Gallows safely. And he couldn’t really run the risk of Cullen hauling him into his office over why the flowers were passed onto _him_ to give to someone else – or worse still, run the risk of the Knight Commander herself hauling him into his office, accusing him of transporting secret messages to Circle mages via bouquets of flowers.

There really was only one option left open to him.

‘They’re from my mother,’ was Carver’s stony-faced answer as he strode through the Gallows, red roses in hand, at each questioning gaze he passed. ‘Excuse me.’

This hadn’t really proved any less embarrassing for him – judging by the titters and whispered giggles and looks of disbelief – but it was much better than telling the truth; and certainly much more preferable than the consequences of that truth.

Once he was back in his own spartan quarters, Carver was able to breathe properly again. He smiled furtively as he breathed in the scent of the roses and carefully set the flowers on top of his bedside locker, next to the portrait of him and Bethany, and plopped himself down on his bed.

So Emeric had gone missing. And Garrett, somehow, was involved. Two more mages had also gone missing – vanished from their beds in the Gallows, stolen in the dead of night. Surely, Carver frowned, they all had to be connected somehow? Was Garrett really behind it all? If so, what the hell was Garrett doing in this city that was making mages and templars alike just disappear without trace?

And… Anders had moved into the Estate now, as his brother’s lover, the abomination in the sewers that either the templars were turning a blind eye to or simply didn’t know was there – not that Anders was exactly hiding his Darktown clinic; everyone from Lowtown downwards knew about him. Was Anders involved in any of this at all? Anders made no secret of his views on how mages should be free, and the very first time Carver had met him he’d been trying to break a mage out of the Gallows – a meeting that had ended in a bloodbath and the slaughter of a group of templars in the Chantry. Was Anders influencing Garrett in some way?

Carver lifted his head, and fixed his eyes on the only other item of decor he allowed himself to keep in his room: a portrait of the Hawke family in happier times, painted back when Father and Bethany were still alive, Mother still knew how to smile, and Garrett had first started growing his stupid beard (the love of his life, judging by how often Garrett kept it neat and trimmed and clipped and oiled; even when on the ship from Gwaren to Kirkwall, mourning Bethany and crowded in the hold with all the other refugees, Garrett never failed to maintain his beard to perfection).

The resemblance of Garrett to Father, even back then, was so close it hurt to look at it now. ‘That which is best in me,’ Father was always fond of saying of Garrett and Bethany, and Carver wondered what Father would say if he saw them all now.

Father would sympathise with Anders’s views on the plight of mages – Carver had heard enough about oppression and templars growing up to be sure of that – but _surely_ Father wouldn’t approve of Garrett getting involved with whatever folly Anders was up to, instead of keeping a low profile and keeping the family safe; in this case, keeping _Mother_ safe, just like Carver had always done whenever Father had been off giving Garrett and Bethany secret magic lessons back in Lothering. _Surely_ Father wouldn’t approve of Garrett making himself probably the most notorious and high-profile apostate in Kirkwall – a city crawling with templars – and spending his spare time sneaking mages out from the Circle and slaughtering whatever templars he could just to win the heart of some… some _abomination_ from the sewers.

Still brooding, Carver made his way down to the canteen for the evening meal, barely paying attention to any of his fellow templars as he did so. The sun was setting and the first candles were being lit; Solivitus was calmly lighting each of them in turn, with Ser Moira, who looked paler than usual, supervising his fire magic. Carver absent-mindedly poured the beef and vegetable casserole onto the potatoes on his plate, not even noticing that he’d slopped some of the gravy over the edge; still lost in thought, he made his way to the nearest templar bench, where Thrask appeared to be humouring Roderick.

‘…and then Ser Carrem says, “Hey! You’re supposed to be tired after a long day fighting!” and Revill tells him “Well, I _was_ , but I’m not too tired for _this_ ”, and then she gets on top of him – they’re still both naked – and Revill has fireballs in her hands but promises “Don’t worry, _ma vhenan_ , I won’t hurt you!” and then she –’

‘Do you _never_ stop talking about that blasted book, Roderick?’ Carver snapped as he slid into the seat beside Thrask, loudly clattering his plate onto the table, while Thrask jumped aside as the gloopy brown casserole splattered over the side of the plate and towards him. ‘Anyone would think you know that trashy Tethras serial better than the Chant.’

Ser Roderick rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, look ’oo it is, Ser I’m-too-good-for-the-likes-of-everyone-since-I-became-Knight-Corporal, come to spoil our fun,’ he moaned. ‘Just ’cos you’re “too busy” to read it, doesn’t mean the rest of us shouldn’t. Thrask wanted to know what happened in the latest chapter, so I’m tellin’ him.’

‘Not a fan, Carver?’ Thrask asked, as Carver busied himself with a huge mouthful of soggy potato.

Carver shook his head.

‘Interesting,’ Thrask said, as he stroked his red beard, eyes sparkling with amusement at Carver’s response. ‘I didn’t think there was a single templar in the Gallows that _wasn’t_ reading it. Well, perhaps excluding the Knight Commander – I can’t really see it being her thing. And among the mages, Grace and Alain don’t seem too impressed, and I don’t know what the First Enchanter thinks; but aside from them, I gather it’s almost as popular among the mages as it is among the templars.’

Carver stared at him in horror. There was so much wrong with that statement, he didn’t know where to start.

‘Why?’ he demanded, once he’d swallowed his food and found his voice again.

‘Well, this chapter is particularly… erotic,’ Ser Roderick interrupted gleefully. ‘She starts by giving him a _magic massage_ , you see. Ser Carrem totally surrenders to her, letting her “work her magic” over his torso with her hands, and then she bends down to lick his –’

‘ _Maker_ ,’ Carver recoiled. ‘Do you _have_ to? While I’m _eating_?’

‘Bet you read this chapter a couple of times, didn’t you Roderick?’ laughed Ruvena as she suddenly appeared over the elderly templar’s shoulder and sat down next to him, while Roderick hiccupped and swayed in her direction as greeting. Ruvena nodded at Thrask as she set her own plate of food down on the table, and shot Carver an uncertain look before picking up her knife and fork and tucking in. ‘So. Is this chapter of “The Templar And The Blood Mage” just as steamy as the last one?’

‘Yeah,’ Roderick said. ‘Revill gives Ser Carrem a _blowjob_.’

Carver groaned.

‘I don’t think Carver wants to know about Ser Carrem’s spicy sex life while he’s eating,’ Thrask chuckled, as Carver glared at the swaying, blissfully unaware Ser Roderick. ‘Perhaps we should leave this conversation till after dinner.’

‘Oh sod that, _I’m_ eating and _I_ wanna know,’ Ruvena fired back, waving the chunk of beef on the end of her fork. She ignored Carver’s red, angry face. ‘Need something to spice up this dinner, at any rate. And to take my mind off Chant study this afternoon. So, Roderick, does she use her magic while she’s giving him one?’

‘Yeah, ’course she does,’ Roderick replied, happily. ‘And Ruvena, let me tell you – it’s _hot_. They do it in _his brother’s place_.’

Carver almost choked on his food. ‘Bloody dwarf,’ he spluttered. ‘How in the Void does he know– _come up_ with these things?’

‘Tethras is a genius,’ Ruvena agreed, oblivious to any note of panic there might have been in Carver’s voice. ‘Beats me how he comes up with these things, I don’t know whether he’s just got an amazing imagination or whether he’s done his research into these things. But,’ and here Ruvena frowned, ‘if he’s done his research into mages and magic, then how?’

‘Well, Tethras knows a lot of people,’ Thrask said mildly, and Carver remembered that Thrask regularly played cards with Varric in the Hanged Man, even if he hardly talked about it, ‘so perhaps one of them may have explained a thing or two. He is very well-connected, after all.’

‘But how would he know about the magic thing?’ Ruvena pressed. ‘The mages here in the Circle couldn’t possibly have told him, could they? Knight Commander Meredith would never allow any of the mages here to meet with outsiders or leave the Gallows – and rightly so, after all that’s happened recently.’

‘Well, it wasn’t that long ago mages were occasionally allowed to meet with outsiders here in the Gallows if they had good reason,’ Thrask said, setting his cutlery down on his empty plate. ‘Meredith has made a lot of changes in recent years, with the confinement of mages and weekly questioning of templars being two of them. Before that – and before Meredith – things were different.’

‘That doesn’t explain how Tethras might have done his research into magic,’ Ruvena said, with the air of someone who didn’t want to argue with Thrask about Meredith right now. ‘Tethras started his serial after the Knight Commander stopped allowing mages to talk to visitors to the Gallows.’ Her expression hardened. ‘Unless some of the escaped mages are feeding him information.’

‘Given that Revill is an elven blood mage, and that her magic is apparently Dalish in origin rather than Circle-trained, I’d say not,’ Thrask answered, evenly. ‘The more pressing question, of course, is how Roderick here managed to snare a copy of the latest instalment of the series before the rest of us.’

At the mention of his name, Ser Roderick, who was slumped in his chair and dozing like a drunk, sat up straight, and puffed out his chest in pride. ‘Varric _gave_ me this one,’ he said, with a self-important grin. ‘The rest have been run off his printing presses and are being delivered as we speak. But Varric said I could have one of the very first copies out of the printer for… for…’ Roderick hiccupped again and trailed off, his head lolling to one side.

‘For…?’ Thrask prompted him, after exchanging a look with Ruvena; the alcohol and the late-stage lyrium addiction had got to Ser Roderick again, and that meant they would have to haul him to his room again soon.

‘For… information,’ Roderick hiccupped, ‘and Varric wanted to thank me for…’ Roderick looked up suddenly, as if he was having an epiphany. ‘Maker… Ser Conrad Vernhardt… what that beardy fellow with Varric told me this afternoon… _Ser Conrad_! Who’d have thought it…?’

Carver watched impassively as Ser Roderick slumped forward onto Ruvena’s now-finished plate in front of him, with whatever he had been about to say about Ser Conrad remaining a mystery. Although, to Carver, the ‘beardy fellow with Varric’ was probably rather less of a mystery. Bloody _Garrett_ , poking his nose in again where he wasn’t wanted – and bloody Varric, for bribing that lyrium-fried idiot Roderick with the latest copy of his sodding book. The book which was actually about Carver and Merrill.

The book which, from the sound of things, accurately transcribed their sex life. How had Varric actually written up his last meeting with Merrill _to the actual words they’d said_? There hadn’t even been any embellishments this time. It was almost as if Varric had been _there_ , in the bedroom with them.

Ruvena and Thrask were now on either side of Ser Roderick, helping him up and hoisting him to his feet. Thrask murmured a quiet ‘I’ll see you around’ to Carver, while Ruvena was cheerily encouraging Roderick to put one foot in front of the other. Carver nodded goodbye at Thrask, and watched them both help Roderick out of the canteen, before pushing own his plate away and making his own exit.

Well. _That_ had been awkward. Perhaps he should have known better than to sit with Roderick at dinner. All Roderick ever talked about nowadays was Varric’s erotic romance serial. Which probably wouldn’t have been so bad, if Carver wasn’t in it.

It still disturbed Carver that a sensationalised account of his own secret relationship was being so avidly consumed by most of the Gallows, and he still wanted to strangle that smug dwarf with his own two hands; but like Ruvena, he keenly wanted to know where Varric was getting his information from, albeit for different reasons. Was Merrill telling Isabela everything, and was Isabela passing it on in turn? Merrill could be quite naïve sometimes, but surely not.

For the time being, at least, no one had figured out Varric’s serial was based on him – although Varric’s ‘Swords And Shields’ romance serial seemed at first glance to be based on Aveline and Cullen, and Carver was fairly sure _they_ weren’t in any sort of relationship, especially if what Carver had heard about Aveline and Guardsman Donnic were true – but keeping his relationship a secret was hard enough without worrying he would inadvertently give something away when people talked about it.

In fact, he almost had done tonight. He was surprised that Thrask hadn’t picked up on it – but Thrask himself had seemed a little distracted of late. Carver had been lucky that neither the older templar nor Ruvena had noticed his brief slip of the tongue.

Bethany would have been so much better at this, Carver groused inwardly, as he climbed the stairs. Bethany could have been bombarded with all kinds of questions about Garrett, and she’d have always had a dazzling array of answers up her sleeve to confuse and distract everyone. Bethany was always good at that. Carver, unfortunately, was much more straightforward.

But perhaps all was not lost, he reassured himself as he turned round the corner and headed down the corridor to his own room. He’d got used to hiding his family’s mages all his life, after all, and keeping silent about Garrett’s status as an apostate was almost automatic now, like breathing. Where Bethany had always been used to talking about her feelings, Carver usually found it easier not to: it reduced the risk that he would blurt out something stupid. Hiding his relationship with Merrill, therefore, wasn’t exactly something new – whatever Varric wrote about them.

Feeling somewhat heartened by this thought, and cheered by the fact that he wasn’t scheduled on night patrol tonight, Carver finally reached his quarters and opened the door, having calmed down from the panic and outrage of the discussion over dinner.

The first thing he noticed, on entering the room, was that Merrill’s bunch of roses was no longer there.

***

Retrieving Bartrand from his mansion and having him safely escorted to the sanitorium outside Kirkwall had been no easy task. For Varric, seeing what had happened to his brother had been worse than telling Hawke that Bartrand had re-surfaced. The mansion had been littered with mutilated and bloodied corpses; they’d been attacked by half-crazed guards and a poison gas trap; and the only good thing that had come out of the house was being able to rescue Bartrand’s dwarven steward, Hugin, who’d somehow hidden himself for weeks from both his master and the lyrium-crazed guards while being forced to listen to the screams of the damned from Bartrand’s room.

Bartrand himself had been in that room when they found him, blood-drenched, surrounded by hunks of rotting flesh and flies, a crazed look in his eyes and a desperate rambling of how he ‘couldn’t hear the song anymore’; a drooling husk of the man he used to be.

The red lyrium idol was nowhere to be found.

‘I shouldn’t have sold the idol to that woman!’ Bartrand shouted at one point, and no matter what Hawke or Varric had said, Bartrand hadn’t listened to them, didn’t recognise them, didn’t even register they were standing in front of him. Blondie had cast his magic to clear Bartrand’s head long enough for sanity to be restored in that once-shrewd mind, but it wasn’t long before the lyrium poisoning clouded his mind again, and Bartrand had been lost to them once more.

_You’ll help me, won’t you, little brother? Help me find it again. You were always the good one._

‘I think I need to get drunk,’ Varric said, when Hawke returned from the bar with a tankard of ale and a glass of Varric’s favourite red wine.

‘Good plan,’ Hawke replied, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, as he handed the glass to Varric.

‘Not the only one,’ Varric said, taking a delicate sniff and a thoughtful sip of the wine glass. ‘Maker, Hawke, this _is_ good.’

‘Well, you know me,’ Hawke said, after a hearty gulp of his ale tankard. ‘Only the best will do for my favourite dwarf.’

Varric chuckled, and then sighed.

‘So. Next step – to find out who bought that damned idol off of Bartrand. We know it was a woman. Bartrand said that “she glittered like the sun, but her heart was cold as ice”. But that’s all we can get out of him that makes any sense.’

‘Do we have any other leads?’

Varric took a swig of his wine glass, and shook his head.

‘Nope, Hawke. That’s it. Not much to go on. I’ll ask around, but based on the little information we have, it’s lookin’ pretty tough to find out who bought it. But –’ Varric paused to sip his wine again, ‘– we have to try.’

‘Agreed,’ said Hawke. ‘If only to save the new owner from a fate worse than Bartrand.’

Varric winced and drained his glass. Hawke took another gulp of his draught, and they sat in companionable silence for a while.

‘Blondie not coming?’ Varric eventually said, after Hawke plunked his empty tankard on the table.

‘Oh, you know Anders. He’s busy with the clinic again tonight,’ Hawke said, a little too smoothly, and Varric couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. ‘Another bottle? I’ll buy again.’

‘Aw, you’re too generous, Hawke,’ Varric said, handing his glass over as the other man stood up. ‘Gladly.’

Two bottles of wine and several tankards of ale later, Hawke was laughing as if he’d never laughed before, and Varric was standing on the table like an orator before his audience with a wine glass in his hand; somewhere along the line Isabela had sashayed in with Merrill and the latter was giggling while trying to hold up her drunken pirate friend.

‘And then – and then _Bartrand_ said,’ Varric slurred, sloshing wine over Hawke’s robes as the latter laughed raucously and wiped his eyes, ‘ _Bartrand_ says –’ and Varric frowned and swayed, lowering his voice to a rasping grunt, ‘– “ _By the ancestors_! The day I let _Dougal Gavorn_ in on our expedition, the day I return to the Stone. I know Gavorn’s tricks!”’

After they’d all staggered out of his suite, Varric climbed into bed, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on – a combination of drinking too much wine and the sobering realisation that he would have to investigate the missing lyrium idol on his own. As Varric tucked himself under the covers, his eye caught on his crossbow Bianca, shimmering against the wall in the hazy moonlight.

He knew whom he would write to first.

***

By the time Merrill got back to the alienage, it was dark, and the air smelled slightly smoky. A small bonfire had been lit near the vhenadahl tree in the centre, its orange flames illuminating the swirling white on red patterns painted around the base of the tree. Some of the elf children in the alienage were playing; they were running around the makeshift bonfire playing what could have been a game of Tag. The sound of their laughter filled the alienage courtyard over the faint crackling of the bonfire. Merrill smiled to herself. Many mad things happened in Kirkwall, and even after three years here she still found it dizzying and confusing at best, menacing and terrifying at worst – but tonight, for her at least, it felt as if all was right with the world. She had even made it back home from the Hanged Man without getting hopelessly lost or without needing her ball of twine, a tiny victory of which she felt very proud.

Merrill crossed the courtyard and opened the wooden door to her home. Once she was safely over the threshold and had closed the door on the cool, smoky Kirkwall night, she shrugged off her grass green scarf and threw it down onto a nearby chair, sighing in happy relief. She smoothed her hands over her neck, massaging her neck and shoulders, happy to be home, and happy to relax. A flick of her wrist lit a fire in one corner; glad not to have to hide her magic any more now that she was safely home. The flame kindled in its designated fireplace, warm, orange and welcoming, like the fire the alienage children were still playing around outside. Humming a Dalish tune to herself, she continued to remove her garments – although Merrill wasn’t sure of the time, the fact that she had been pretty much the last of the group (barring Varric and Isabela, of course) to leave the Hanged Man told her it must be very, very late.

She wiggled her legs out of her soft, dark brown leather greaves, enjoying the feeling of the soft, velvety underside of the leather against her skin – like suede but softer, Isabela had told her when purchasing them for Merrill, though Merrill had had no idea what that even meant – and slid off her green tunic, where it cascaded and rippled onto the ground to pool around her feet, a deep green puddle of homespun raw silk. She stepped out of the middle and pulled off her chainmail sleeves – the underside was the same as her greaves; she did so love the brush of it against her skin – and, naked at last, enjoyed the cool rush of air over her body. She padded to the tiny washroom at the back of her little abode – the only room in her house that wasn't full of books, and turned on the tap to wash her feet before she tucked into bed. The tap gargled before spluttering to life; cold water spurted and gushed out into the metal bowl placed underneath, making a tinny noise as it hit the basin, and Merrill took a sharp breath and scrunched up her nose before stepping into the bowl. The water was almost like ice on her feet, so Merrill soaped and rinsed her feet quickly, reassuring herself with the knowledge of the warm fire in the other room.

The tap sputtered stubbornly as she turned it off. Merrill shook the excess water off her cold feet, first left, then right; then just as quickly dried them with her towel – first left, then right, as always. With now dry and clean feet – much as she liked washing the dirt of Kirkwall away after a long day, there was really no better feeling than the feeling of clean, freshly-washed feet – she walked back to the fire with her hands out, gleefully soaking up the warmth it radiated onto her naked skin.

She sighed happily. Right now, she felt, at this point in time, there really was nothing better than being warm, and safe, and possessing clean feet. Even if the tap water she'd had to use had been absolutely freezing cold, and possibly even full of wriggling things that didn’t even seem to go away after boiling; the alienage’s water was far from the best, and how Merrill and any guests she’d had never managed to get seriously ill had always been a mystery. For now, though, her feet felt clean, and that was the important thing.

Once she felt comfortably warm, Merrill made her way across the room to her bookshelf, debating on what to pick up for a spot of bedtime reading. The latest chapters of ‘Swords And Shields’ and ‘Hard In Hightown’ were on her bookshelf, but for once, Merrill bypassed them for an old, thick, heavy tome – one of the many she had on elven magic – that she spotted on the top shelf, and one she hadn’t looked at in a long time.

Merrill stood on tiptoes, tugging at the spine to loosen its position on the shelf, working at it gently with her slender fingers, until – at last! – she was able to pull it off the shelf. The book, however, was much heavier than she’d bargained for, and Merrill yelped and jumped out of the way when the entire opus fell onto the floor with a loud _thump_ , wide open, throwing up a cloud of dust in its wake and sending something somewhere scattering.

Merrill sighed, and bent down to pick the heavy book up from the floor, until she noticed the pages that the tome had opened at. Gathering the book up in her hands, she placed both covers carefully on the table, hungrily reading the text that had fortuitously revealed itself to her.

She sat down, heart skipping with excitement. She read it again, following the text carefully with her index finger this time; and when she had finished, she read it again.

 _This_ was what had been missing all this time, Merrill thought to herself triumphantly. _This_ was what she needed to do. The mystery would finally be solved. The revelation made her almost giddy with euphoria, and Merrill pressed one of her keepsakes in the crevice between the pages of the open, dusty old tome so as not to lose her place in the text.

By the time she went to bed, Merrill knew how she would piece the final parts of the mirror together, and felt sure that it would work with only a little more effort. The gilded frame in her room would no longer stand empty, and the eluvian would soon be restored once more.

 


	8. Guess Who’s Back, Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Leandra persuades Hawke to throw a party, Fenris and Isabela chat while waiting for Merrill, and Carver undergoes his weekly templar questioning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured it was time for the annual update. Sorry for the wait. 
> 
> Perhaps I should try to finish this before the decade is out. Or before GRRM finishes "A Song Of Ice And Fire", whichever comes first.

‘Mother,’ sighed Hawke, ‘a _party_ for all of Hightown’s _nobles_? Do I _have_ to?’

‘Well, I thought it would be nice,’ Leandra said airily, ‘as I know the Arenburgs and the Selbrechs have asked if we were planning on celebrating the return of the Amells to Hightown – what better way than throwing a grand party at the estate? Father used to do it all the time; I’m sure some of the old families have rather missed the Amell parties…’

‘ _Mother_.’ Hawke made a face. ‘Hightown _knows_ the Amells are back. Varric’s heard plenty of Kirkwall’s upper classes grousing about how we’ve ruined the neighbourhood. Why would we need a party to cement that fact?’

‘Because they would be less likely to complain about us if we throw them the best party Hightown has ever seen,’ his mother replied. ‘Garrett, dear – you were not brought up in this life, but I was. If you are going to make this part of Kirkwall your home, you need to follow at least _some_ of your mother’s advice.’

‘And here I was, hoping I could be the eccentric rich commoner,’ Hawke said wryly, ‘upsetting the delicate social balance of the city for my own amusement. Surely the nobles enjoy the gossip, at least. Nobles _love_ to gossip.’

‘Well, _I_ think a party would be a fine idea,’ Leandra shot back. ‘We’ve spent years clearing and restoring the estate, and it’s finally finished. Finally it feels like home again.’ She gestured around the sumptuous rose-tinted reception room where they both stood, her eyes lingering on the ornate wrought-iron chandeliers above her son’s head with pride. ‘I see nothing wrong in showing all our hard work off. I can hold my head up high again in front of Dulci de Launcet and her daughters.’

‘Ah, so _that’s_ what this is really all about,’ Hawke grinned, amber eyes sparkling mischievously. ‘You want me to throw the grandest party Hightown has ever seen, so that you can rub it in Madame de Launcet’s snooty powdered face.’

‘Garrett!’ his mother chided, before her outrage gave way to a slow, sheepish grin. ‘All right, there _may_ be a little of that. But there is nothing wrong in a mother wanting her son to survive and thrive in high society, is there? I was so _proud_ of you when you rescued the Viscount’s son from those awful bandits – and now the Viscount himself relies on you to tackle the problems of this city! A party to ingratiate yourself with the neighbours would surely only lead to more great things for you…’

‘Mother,’ Hawke said, crossing the room and putting a hand affectionately over his mother’s to stop her, ‘if you want me to throw a party simply to gloat over Dulci de Launcet, that’s all the justification I need.’

‘Of course it’s not simply to gloat!’ giggled Leandra, guilt written all over her blushing face, and Hawke couldn’t help smirking knowingly until she sighed and looked thoughtful. ‘Maker’s breath, imagine if I _had_ married the Comte de Launcet instead of running away with your father. Babette and Fifi might have been _my_ children instead.’

‘Indeed,’ Hawke smirked again, ‘and imagine how awful _that_ would be. The shame of it would have been worse than running off with an apostate.’

Leandra roared with laughter. The sound of it took her son by surprise; he’d never heard his mother laugh a long, loud, genuine belly-laugh like this one, and it was like she was a whole different person to the woman who had brought him up all these years.

‘Oh, my darling,’ Leandra eventually said, wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes, ‘I couldn’t possibly regret running off with Malcolm when it led to the three of you. I was always so proud of you all: you _and_ the twins. And I still am.’

‘Really?’ Hawke said cheekily. ‘Even Carver?’

‘Garrett, don’t be facetious,’ his mother said, giving him a playful, teasing slap on the wrist. ‘Of course I am. He may have foundered in Lothering as a boy, but in Kirkwall he’s finally found his way – he’s doing very well in the templars. And yet he remains unfailingly loyal to this family – and to you. One day I hope you’ll see that.’

Privately Hawke disagreed, but he didn’t want to ruin Mother’s good mood – she had always been more protective of Carver than him, especially with Carver remaining behind with her whenever Father took Hawke and Bethany off to teach them magic. Father had sometimes confided in him that he regretted that, out of necessity, he’d been unable to spend more time with his non-mage second son; but Mother certainly saw more of Carver than she did of her eldest and youngest (if Bethany could be counted as the youngest, being the younger twin by just a few minutes), and Garrett had always felt the twins were the apples of Mother’s eye.

After all, the oldest Hawke child was pretty sure he’d been the ‘accident’ that had resulted in Malcolm and Leandra’s shotgun wedding while on the run… if he wasn’t _actually_ the reason they’d gone on the run in the first place.

Aloud, however, Hawke merely shrugged and said: ‘Well, I suppose worse things than Carver could have resulted from running off with a handsome, charming apostate.’

‘ _Garrett_.’ Leandra gave him a reproachful look, then sighed again. ‘Oh, he and Bethany used to fight so. They were so close that they really knew how to push each other’s buttons. I remember Bethany crying when Carver nailed her braid to the bed, but when she accidentally set one of her dolls on fire he would dance that silly jig of his to make her laugh again, and it would work like nothing else.’

‘Yes,’ Hawke said in remembrance. ‘Remember when they had that row not long after Bethany first manifested, and Carver taunted her so much she cast her new ice spell and froze him solid? And after Father unfroze him, he was so angry with her for using magic on him. “Your magic gives you an unfair advantage and you are not allowed to best your own brother with it,” Father told us, and Carver felt so bad about Bethany getting into trouble that he tried to do all her chores in secret for a week. I believe that’s the only time Father was ever mad at Bethany – she was always his little princess.’

Leandra laughed. ‘Oh, we had our little tiffs, as all families do; but, I think we were a mostly happy family, weren’t we? It was so _hard_ at first – I’d been a wealthy noble all my life, and suddenly I had to learn to cook and clean and run a household without the aid of servants! – but Malcolm was always so loving and good-humoured with my mistakes, and so good with the three of you, that I couldn’t regret it in the end.’ She put her arms round her son, and he returned the hug. ‘I just wish Bethany and Malcolm could have been here. Malcolm would have been so proud of what you’ve done for us. Bethany would have _loved_ living here. She’d have been in her element at all the nobles’ parties.’

Hawke mumbled in agreement, and Leandra broke off the hug to look at him, a new determination in her eyes.

‘Garrett.’ Leandra’s voice was decisive. ‘Please invite Carver to your party.’

‘Mother, I really don’t think nobles’ parties are Carver’s sort of thing.’

‘But he’s your brother,’ she insisted, tone shifting into all the authoritativeness of a prominent Kirkwall noble’s daughter. ‘He is all we have left of our family now. You _must_ invite him. I will make sure he comes.’

Hawke dropped his arms. ‘Mother. Carver _hates_ being reminded that he’s an Amell lord. With all that entails. Almost as much as he hates being my brother.’

‘Darling, please don’t argue with me. And please make sure your friends all have something nice to wear in front of our guests. Your Anders will look so handsome once he’s cleaned up…’

‘Mother –’

‘And I must speak with Orana about the food,’ Leandra went on, marching briskly towards the kitchens, head held high, ‘and see if she and Bodahn can make those delicious little Orlesian pastries the de Launcets had when I visited them for tea…’

‘ _Mother_ …’

‘And I shall see if the printer can do those beautifully calligraphed invitations with gold filigree, and maybe even a gilded Amell crest…’

‘Mother!’

‘And you must order some fine clothes, my dear. Carver can come in his armour, or perhaps the templars will have something that he can wear for smart occasions…’

Hawke could only watch, aghast, as Leandra chattered away and took charge, not as the Mother her children had known back in Lothering, but as the Amell she was once more.

***

‘ _Venhedis_ ,’ grumbled Fenris, frowning at the dark bottle of wine in his hand. ‘Isabela, I do not wish to discuss this.’

‘Fine,’ Isabela huffed, reaching across the dusty table they were both sitting at, ‘have it your way, but you could at least share that wine.’

Fenris allowed her to take the bottle from his hand – an old vintage from the cellars in Danarius’s mansion – and take a hearty gulp. Isabela smacked her lips appreciatively, gave him a wink, and placed the bottle back in front of him, leaning forward suggestively as she did so. But Fenris was barely aware of the large, bronzed, perfectly-shaped breasts in his line of sight; the only thing he could think of were Hadriana’s last words to him.

Seeing her presence was having even less of an effect on the elf than usual, Isabela leaned back in her seat. ‘Come on,’ she sighed, exasperated. ‘If you’re going to be like this, _fine_. You could at least allow me to guess the colour of your underclothes again.’

‘I have a sister,’ Fenris blurted out.

Isabela raised an eyebrow.

‘I have a sister,’ Fenris repeated. He looked up to face his companion. ‘Hadriana’s last words to me… before I killed her.’

If the pirate was surprised that Fenris had now decided to share what happened on that fateful day he’d met Danarius’s apprentice, she didn’t show it.

‘I’ve been able to think of nothing else,’ Fenris continued, as Isabela slid the bottle of wine back into his now-outstretched hand, ‘ever since we were ambushed by Hadriana’s slavers. I was only glad I was able to crush that bitch’s heart myself.’

‘I only wish I’d been there,’ Isabela sighed. ‘It’s no less than any slaver deserves.’

Fenris nodded.

‘I should feel better than this. Killing Danarius’s pet apprentice… it is but merely one more battle on the long fight for freedom.’ He set the bottle down halfway between them. ‘But all I have thought of, since that day, is what she told me before I ripped her heart from her chest.’

‘What exactly did she say?’

‘That I have a sister, Varania. That she is serving Magister Ahriman in Qarinus. That she is not a slave.’ Fenris scowled, and banged his hands on the table in front of him. ‘How do I know this is not _another_ trap Danarius is laying for me!’

‘A trap?’ Isabela cocked her head to one side. ‘How?’

Fenris raised his head, his clear green eyes – framed by drawn dark eyebrows and shocking white hair – looking pointedly at her; and Isabela suddenly understood.

‘…Fenris. _Don’t_.’

‘I have to,’ he insisted. ‘If there is any possibility she is alive, back in Tevinter… I have to know. I have to find out.’

‘Fenris,’ Isabela said gently, as she leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder, ‘you’ve got to let it go.’

‘Really?’ He shoved her hand off his shoulder, voice bitter. ‘Like you would let your relic go?’

He had her there. Isabela paused, just for the tiniest of moments, before composing herself and answering him in a smooth tone.

‘People are not like ancient relics, Fenris. Family sometimes isn’t as valuable as you would like.’

‘And your relic _is_?’

Isabela merely shrugged and took another gulp of Fenris’s wine.

‘What’s so valuable about this relic of yours, anyway?’

‘If I drop the subject of your sister,’ Isabela smiled, voice dangerous, ‘will you agree to drop the subject of my relic?’

‘Only if you agree not to tell me what to do.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Isabela sang, handing him the wine again. ‘I just thought you should share in some of my philosophy. If it only brings you hurt and complication rather than gold or giggles, why pursue it? But – you are free to do whatever you want to do.’

Fenris took a swig from the bottle; the silence between them was awkward. He didn’t _really_ want to fight with the pirate; he wasn't sure whether he necessarily approved of everything she said, did or believed – but he liked and admired her, the way she revelled in her freedom without apology or so much as a backward glance, and Fenris hoped that someday, one day, he could be the same. He tried speaking again.

‘I went to talk to Hawke afterwards, even though we’d argued about mages over Hadriana’s corpse. But I didn’t know who else to turn to… and Hawke _had_ been there. He’s apologised, and since then he has been… very helpful.’

‘That’s good to know. Although you haven’t left this house since.’

‘True. I needed – some time to process everything. To decide what to do next.’

‘Well, don’t take too long,’ Isabela said, affectionately now. ‘Varric is missing your Wicked Grace games. And I,’ she said, standing up, ‘need to take you shopping for Hawke’s party.’

‘Shopping,’ grumbled Fenris, draining the last of his wine, ‘pfaugh! I cannot drink enough to make _shopping_ bearable.’

Isabela laughed; after their tense conversational stalemate just now, it was like music. ‘We can stop by the Hanged Man on the way. I’m afraid I promised Merrill I would meet her there. She will be coming with us.’

‘Ugh. Even worse. I really _will_ need a drink.’

‘Oh, Fenris. She tries so hard with you, you know.’

‘Well, perhaps she should stop.’

‘I’ll buy you a drink if you don’t snap at her,’ Isabela bargained.

‘Hmmm. I won’t promise anything. Where are we going, anyway?’

‘Hightown.’ Isabela rolled her eyes. ‘Hawke is throwing one of those hoity-toity nobles’ parties. Reluctantly, I might add. Leandra wants to “celebrate the sensational comeback of the Amells”, or something. Hawke said she wants us all to look _smart_.’

‘Ugh,’ Fenris said again; this was even worse than learning Merrill would be joining them. ‘You know those stall-owners will watch me like I’m about to steal their wares.’

‘Of course I do,’ grinned Isabela, ‘and you provide great cover for those of us who _do_ steal. Shall we go?’

Fortunately for Fenris, Merrill was late meeting them at the Hanged Man, having got lost again, and he had time to mentally prepare for their (inevitably annoying) shopping trip.

‘You’re looking very bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Kitten,’ Isabela observed when a very smiley elven mage finally turned up. ‘This isn’t something to do with a certain templar boy, is it?’

‘A certain templar boy?’ Fenris murmured. _Venhedis_ – what was the maleficar up to _this_ time?

Merrill, however, ignored his question in favour of Isabela’s. ‘Oh! No, not _that_ this time! I’m just… happy? That… things might be finally working?’

‘Working?’ A look of suspicion suddenly flashed across Isabela’s face; Fenris noted it, and resented Merrill more than ever for whatever evil scheme she was cooking up that was clearly worrying Isabela. ‘What things are finally working?’

‘Oh! Nothing, really,’ Merrill said, with a guarded look at Fenris. ‘I’m just rambling! Let’s go.’

‘This isn’t to do with that shard of yours, is it?’ Isabela eventually said as she sashayed through Lowtown, and Fenris couldn’t help glaring at Merrill as he followed them. Whatever that blood mage was up to – whether it involved suspicious shards or templars or anything else – surely this couldn’t be good.

Judging by the uneasy look on the usually easygoing Isabela’s face, this wasn’t anything good.

‘No? Well, no, I mean… yes? It isn’t really a shard anymore, you see…’ Merrill trailed off as Isabela started to climb the stairs that led from Lowtown to Hightown’s marketplace. ‘Isabela, where are you taking us?’

‘Hightown,’ Isabela replied, turning back to Merrill as the latter stood at the bottom of the first flight of stairs. ‘Leandra wants us in something fancy for Hawke’s party, apparently, so I thought where better to buy fancy clothes? Perhaps I’ll even be able to lay my hands on those bangles I’ve had my eye on for a while.’ She winked at Fenris, who had drawn level with her on the stairs. ‘You’ll cover for me, won’t you Fenris?’

***

The Knight Commander’s weekly questioning sessions had only recently been introduced for Kirkwall’s Templar Order, and deep down, Carver was even more nervous for this than he had been for his interview to join the Order in the first place. He sat in Knight Commander Meredith’s office, the stone floors and walls as cold and hard as her expression as she paced up and down in front of him. Knight Captain Cullen stood dutifully to one side, in front of a large sack leaning against the wall.

‘Ser Carver,’ she said when she stopped directly in front of his chair, hands behind her back, her icy blue eyes attempting to pierce him. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

‘My weekly interview, Knight Commander.’

Meredith continued her hard stare for half a minute, before speaking again.

‘Do you know _why_ you have been summoned for interrogation before any other templar of your rank?’

Carver gazed as coolly at her as she did at him. He refused to let someone as powerful as the Knight Commander intimidate him, whatever her reasons for it.

‘No, ser.’

‘Are you sure.’ Meredith barked the phrase like an order instead of a question, her tone as frosty and suspicious as her expression.

‘Yes, ser.’

Meredith’s scowl met his own defiant one; she continued to scrutinise him as she spoke again.

‘Knight Captain. Pass me the contents of the sack behind you.’

Carver watched as the Knight Captain bent to rummage in the aforementioned sack, before emerging with an embarrassed cough. For the second time that week, Carver saw Cullen holding a bunch of deep red roses.

The Knight Commander eyed them distastefully as her second-in-command placed them carefully on her desk and retreated to a corner, before she scowled at Carver again.

‘You look surprised. Tell me, Ser Carver, do you recognise these flowers?’

‘Yes,’ Carver answered. No use lying. ‘I do.’

‘They were retrieved during a raid I conducted on the templars’ quarters a few days ago,’ Meredith said. ‘I supervised the raid of your room _personally_.’

‘Oh,’ was all Carver said. _So that’s who took them, and why they went missing_ , he thought to himself. At least he had an answer now; he’d been puzzling over it for days.

Not that _this_ answer made anything better. _Shit_. 

The Knight Commander started to pace up and down again, while Carver braced himself for whatever came next.

‘Curious,’ she mused aloud as she walked. ‘You never struck me as a sentimental man, Ser Carver. Perhaps I do not know you as well as I thought.’

Carver didn’t respond.

‘I had them checked for blood magic,’ Meredith went on. ‘For all I knew, you were transporting secret messages between mages via flowers.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Carver saw Cullen start; he clearly was as astonished as Carver was at learning what Meredith had thought on seeing a rose bouquet.

‘They were free of any traces of blood magic,’ Meredith continued, not noticing their incredulity. ‘One can never be too careful, knowing what the mages in this city can get up to.’ She stopped and wheeled sharply round on Carver. ‘Do you _agree_ , Knight Corporal?’

‘Yes, ser.’

Truly, he did. No matter how much Carver loved Merrill, even _he_ didn’t want to receive blood magic roses.

That said, Carver was sure Merrill wouldn’t do something quite so stupid or evil. Blood mage or not.

The Knight Commander seemed to relax slightly at his heartfelt answer, but her voice remained unyielding. ‘Do you know what raised my suspicions?’ She started to pace again, as Carver waited for her to continue. ‘They look uncannily like the roses from the Viscount’s garden. Viscount Dumar was showing me his prized rose bush only last week.’

She stopped in front of him again, noting the confusion that spread across the young templar’s face. ‘Where did you get those roses from?’

‘They’re from my mother,’ Carver replied automatically.

Cullen exhaled in his corner.

‘Ah yes. Your mother,’ and Meredith started to pace again. ‘She visits you frequently in the Gallows, does she not?’

‘Yes, she does. Ser.’

‘And she was in one of the pictures in your rooms. Those are portraits of your family, are they not?’

‘Yes.’

‘The young woman in the portrait on your bedside locker…?’

‘My twin sister, Bethany. Unfortunately… she didn’t make it to Kirkwall with us.’

He wasn’t sure, but Carver thought he could see Meredith’s expression soften slightly.

‘She was killed by the darkspawn back in Ferelden when the Blight hit, ser. We were fleeing Lothering at the time.’

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ Meredith stated, matter-of-factly. ‘I too know what it is like to lose a sister.’

Carver nodded his thanks, breathing deeply to compose himself. Meredith waited a few moments before she spoke again in the same dispassionate tone.

‘I recognised you and your mother immediately from the large painting I saw hanging on your wall. It is a very good likeness.’

‘Thanks, Knight Commander.’

‘I understand your older brother also came to Kirkwall, did he not? And your father?’

‘Father died some years before the Blight. But yes, Garrett came to Kirkwall with Mother and me.’

‘Ah yes. Garrett Hawke, now of Hightown’s Amell Estate. That name has come across my desk a few times.’

‘Right.’

‘I understand he found a great fortune in the Deep Roads, and used that to buy back the Amell Estate.’

‘Yeah, he did.’

‘Strange, then, that you mention so little of him. I presume you speak often.’

‘Not really. I’ve written to him, once or twice, when Mother asked me to. Sometimes we bump into each other, whenever I’ve visited Mother at the estate. Mostly, we don’t.’

‘Interesting.’

Carver shrugged. ‘It is what it is.’

‘And yet you keep a portrait that includes him in your room.’

Carver shrugged again. ‘He’s part of the family, I suppose. Whether I like that or not.’

‘I see.’ Meredith appeared to be examining him again, though her gaze now was more inquisitive than before. ‘I believe that is all I have to say on the matter of what I found in your room,’ she finally said, seating herself at her desk. ‘Shall we now discuss the rest of your templar duties over the past week? The Knight Captain and I will hear everything you have to report, and investigate anything we find suspect.’

Carver felt exhausted when it was over; Meredith grilled him just as hard about the minutiae of his days as she had done over what she had found in his room, and he was only too glad to be released. Compared to what he’d just been through, walking through the Gallows a second time with the same bouquet of flowers was going to be a breeze. Nonetheless, he stood to attention, obediently saluted the Knight Commander and waited for her nod of approval before leaving her office.

As he passed Cullen, the latter shot Carver a grateful, relieved look; and Carver realised only later how worried the Knight Captain must have been that his role in the suspicious roses saga would be revealed.


	9. After The Raid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Gallows reels from recent events, Emile de Launcet introduces Carver to his favourite book, and Hawke and Anders leave the Estate as Carver visits Merrill (also, smut). 
> 
> (N.B. As many of you already know, the 23-chapter prequel to this fic, ["The Courtship of Daisy and Junior"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7859593/chapters/17947240), is now fully posted to AO3 - please do check it out if you haven't already, especially if you want to read all about how Carver and Merrill got together!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd try and update this fic more frequently than once a year. Especially given that I started this fic more than three years ago, when I posted up the first 3 chapters - and it really shows :-/ 
> 
> I feel like you can really tell the difference between my writing style in the first three chapters, and everything that's come after it (although some of this chapter was written three years ago, and it was difficult trying to marry it up with everything else that needed to go in the chapter now). Never mind. I said I'd finish this fic, so I will. Still planning more Carver/Merrill stories and longfics in the pipeline, though! 
> 
> \--------------------------

The tunnel was dark and musty, but a faint wisp lit the blond man’s path, the pale blue light bouncing off the walls as he walked. He tread cautiously, carefully, as if he expected to run into anyone at any moment. It was a route he’d often walked, a tunnel he’d often used for this specific purpose, yet he was no less careful than he was the many other times he’d done this before. His staff was secured to his back, although anyone who knew him knew that he would be ready to brandish and use it at a moment’s notice.

There was only one difference: this time, he was not alone.

The man with the dark hair and the dark beard stumbled behind him, jauntily and far less cautiously; and as he loudly kicked a pebble the blond man turned to him in alarm, stubby ponytail swinging slightly as he turned round, and the two of them stared at each other in the dark. Maybe words were mouthed or whispered; it was hard to tell. The blond man tried to set off again, boots taking silent steps forward; but he didn’t get far before wheeling around, jolting as if his backside had been pinched. The dark-haired man grinned, and the man with the blond ponytail shook his head, possibly more out of affection than exasperation; and even in the dim, flickering light one could see the dark-haired man’s cheeky smile broaden, undeterred by the other man’s reproach.

They exchanged a long, lingering look before the blond-haired man turned away, walking on, the dark-haired man in his wake, as furtively and noiselessly as they could. The wisp of light in the blond man’s hand hovered steadily in his palm, guiding their way.

***

The last thing Carver had actually wanted to do was take the roses across the Gallows courtyard for the second time in as many days; but here he was, doing it anyway. Once again, he was greeted with a few stares by his fellow templars – but, this time, it seemed no one was curious enough anymore to enquire, either through their words or their glances, why Ser Carver of the Kirkwall Templar Order was striding bad-temperedly through the courtyard with a large bouquet of red roses again.

If anything, most of the templars he encountered – and overheard – seemed quite subdued. Carver was pretty sure he knew the reason for it: Meredith’s raids on them had shocked everyone. Carver himself was determined not to react until he had some privacy. Bad enough that Meredith had raided his room, but the fact that his worst nightmare had come true – that she’d questioned him about the roses and even had them inspected for traces of blood magic – frightened and appalled him. How often was she planning on doing these raids now? What else had she found? Had she even questioned him about everything she found – had she even got hold of the little correspondence that had passed between himself and Merrill before they got together?

Still, the hardest part was getting back to his quarters without showing how terrified, worried, shocked and angry he felt. Judging by the look on the faces of some of the templars he passed, many felt the same way; whether Meredith had actually spoken to them yet or not, it was apparent that news had filtered through about the Knight Commander’s secret raid. Carver couldn’t help wondering what Meredith had discovered about everybody else.

Lost in these thoughts, Carver didn’t even notice that some of the mages had started to creep out into the Gallows courtyard, now in the rest-and-exercise period of their daily routine – and before long, he collided with one of them who was reading a book.

‘Hey!’ Carver started. ‘Watch where you’re – Emile, what is that book you’re reading?’

The mage known as Emile de Launcet looked up with a dozy smile on his face from the reading material he was engrossed in, and closed it; Carver’s heart sank when he saw the title of _The Templar and the Blood Mage_ emblazoned across the front. With his slate grey eyes and his reddish-brown hair balding like a monk’s tonsure, Emile de Launcet was a singularly unattractive man, though he smiled pleasantly at the Knight Corporal even after the latter bumped into him.

‘Ah, Ser Carver!’ Emile cried in his comically exaggerated Orlesian accent, completely oblivious to Carver’s mood. ‘’Ave you read zis book? It eez _excellent_. I cannot put it down!’

‘Right. Good for you,’ Carver replied curtly; he was beginning to wish he’d never asked the other man about his book in the first place. Briefly, he wondered if Emile had any idea about Carver’s Amell lineage – or even that his own father, whom Carver had since learned was a minor nobleman from Orlais, had been betrothed to Leandra.

‘It eez called Ze Templar And Ze Blood Mage,’ Emile replied, answering Carver’s earlier question at last; though now Carver had seen the title on the cover, Emile’s response was rather redundant. Smiling happily, the mage held the book cover up, and Carver’s heart sank at the sight of it.

On the front of the book were two dark, mysterious silhouettes. One was of a templar outlined in lyrium blue, and the other, next to it, was of an elf outlined in blood red. The templar’s silhouette looked suspiciously like Carver himself, while the elf’s silhouette looked suspiciously like Merrill’s.

How the fuck, thought Carver, was this Varric’s bloody idea of being _discreet_? And why hadn’t he, Carver Hawke, strangled him yet?

‘Emile,’ Carver began, trying to keep the lid on his emotions, ‘I don’t think you should be reading that book…’

‘But it eez so inspiring!’ Emile insisted, opening the book again, and in his enthusiasm Carver suspected the mage had completely forgotten that he was talking to a templar. ‘It eez about a templar ’oo falls in _lurve_ wiz an elf blood mage apostate, and zey _do it_ all over ze city; and Ser Carrem, ze noble and ’andsome templar, started meeting Revill, ze beautiful, _dangerous_ , seductive blood mage, at a tavern called ze Banged…’

‘Emile,’ Carver interrupted, desperate to stop him even if he couldn’t show it, ‘I don’t think that’s suitable reading for a Gallows mage, do you?’

‘But why not?’ Emile protested, and Carver knew he’d lost this battle before he’d even started. ‘It eez so good! Everyone eez reading it! And it eez so _realistic_! I have never done it wiz a woman, but zis book is such an _eye-opener_! You even feel zat Ser Carrem and Revill might be real people!’

‘Look, I doubt it, Emile,’ Carver said, hating how his face heated up, ‘but I still don’t think you should…’

But Emile was no longer listening to Carver’s protests; he was now lost in his own desires, seemingly brought about by his reading material.

‘Ah, if only I could get to a tavern like ze Banged Ham!’ Emile sighed. ‘Zat seems to be ze place to meet girls. Ser Carrem seems to meet Revill at zat tavern all ze time!’

‘The _Banged Ham_? Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake, Varric,’ Carver exploded, before recovering his composure at Emile’s surprised expression. ‘Look,’ he said, addressing Emile as if nothing had happened, ‘I don’t know what’s in that book you’re reading, but I do know it’s fiction. All of it. It’s not a… it’s not a life guide, Emile, so don’t take it as one.’

‘Ah, it may not be a life guide, but _eez_ it fiction, really?’ Emile challenged him. ‘I ’ave ’eard some of ze templars say ze tavern is obviously based on Ze ’anged Man. Look – it even refers to ze giant ham ’anging above ze front door…’

‘I don’t want to read that filth!’ Carver squawked, frantically shoving away the open book that Emile held out to him as if it was on fire. ‘And I don’t care whether it’s based on the Hanged Man or not! Of course it’s fiction, you bloody fool. Do you really think any templar would… would do all _that_ to an apostate mage without bringing her in?’

‘But why not? It eez so romantic!’ cried Emile passionately. ‘Maybe it eez not ze sort of thing _you_ would do, Ser Carver; but surely it’s possible another templar, or anyone else, might succumb to _la liaison dangereuse_ with an intriguing, suave, _sexy_ blood mage, _non_?’

Carver stared at him, open-mouthed. If Emile’s father was anything like his son, it was no wonder Mother ran away with a penniless apostate.

‘You are lucky you are saying that to me and not the Knight Commander,’ Carver said at last. ‘She would probably give you the brand for such talk.’

Emile looked crushed. Carver couldn’t bring himself to care.

‘If you know what’s good for you,’ Carver continued, ‘you’ll stop reading that book. If you’re so stupid you can’t distinguish fiction from fact, you’re gonna get yourself into trouble. Or worse.’

With a final, withering look, Carver strode on to the templars’ wing of the Gallows. He marched past Grace, a mage from the now-destroyed Starkhaven Circle that Carver had helped Knight Commander Meredith bring in recently, but he was so intent in getting to his private quarters that he couldn’t even return the evil eye she gave him – the same glare, full of scheming hatred, that she’d been giving him ever since she’d been brought in. Carver completely ignored her; he had no time to contemplate whatever she was up to – he had more pressing concerns.

The first thing Carver did on getting back to his room was check his drawers where he kept his stash of letters, going through them in such a panic he barely registered what he was reading. Most of them were from his mother; however, there was the occasional innuendo-laced note from Isabela, as well as unanswered letters from Varric.

There were also the letters from Merrill.

Even though there were only a couple of them, Carver devoured them hungrily, knowing full well the Knight Commander would have done so herself, if she’d seen them. Having found nothing to have given anyone any cause for suspicion, he collapsed on his bed in relief.

The letters from Merrill had been what he had been worried most about. The last thing he wanted to do was expose her to any trouble; the fact that Varric’s serial was so popular in the Gallows – and seemed to feature he and Merrill on the actual front cover itself – was bad enough.

Fortunately her correspondence with him didn’t contain anything that would have alarmed anyone; there was nothing in them to suggest that they were anything other than friends, let alone lovers.

And fortunately, as far as Carver knew, Merrill wasn’t someone who was under suspicion of being an apostate… yet. The ‘Darktown healer’ was someone that had escaped the templars’ raids time and time again – to the point where some templars were starting to believe he didn’t exist – but so far Carver hadn’t heard any suspicions falling on a possible elven apostate in the alienage. It would only be a matter of time, especially given how prominent his brother was becoming in the city… but if Carver could ensure that time was as far away as possible – ideally, never come at all – he would continue to redirect the rare Darktown and alienage raids that happened for as long as he could.

***

‘Ser Carver,’ Cullen greeted him as Carver entered his office. ‘Good to see you. Please sit down.’

‘You summoned me, ser?’ Carver asked as he seated himself. Cullen nodded, running a hand over his tired face and through his blond curls before replying.

‘I did.’ Cullen himself sat down before he spoke again; Carver merely waited, watching him carefully.

‘I just wanted to start by saying… thank you,’ Cullen began, ‘for holding your nerve during the Knight Commander’s questioning earlier.’

Carver shrugged. ‘Just tried to do my duty, ser.’

‘Would that we all.’ The Knight Captain ran his hand over his face again; he looked so very exhausted, and Carver wondered if his senior officer had had a few sleepless nights of late. He would have felt sorry for him, if it wasn’t for the fact that it wasn’t a soldier’s place to do so.

‘I will not ask you where you got those roses from,’ Cullen told him. ‘But I would be pleased not to be troubled by them again.’

‘You won’t, ser.’

Cullen slumped forward. ‘And there I was thinking I was doing the Captain of the Guard a harmless favour… but no matter. I am sure you are as surprised as I am by the raid the Knight Commander ordered on the templar’s quarters. It was not personal – every templar was raided.’

‘Is this going to be a regular occurrence, ser?’ Carver couldn’t stop the question before it tumbled out of his mouth.

Knight Captain Cullen stared at Carver warily before answering. Carver responded by simply waiting until the man would speak; Cullen seemed to be weighing up his words before he spoke.

‘The raid has – proved to be a major surprise among the Order,’ Cullen finally said. ‘At a time when morale is already so low, when templars are being killed seemingly in droves, the Knight Commander needs all the support she can get.’ Cullen leaned back in his chair, surveying Carver just as carefully as Carver was studying him. ‘The Knight Commander has indeed been acting… most unexpectedly of late. Ever since she went to purchase something personally for the Order, or so she said – I do not know what she meant, but it may have been something about a new sword…’

Cullen suddenly looked guilty; he cleared his throat as if he had said too much and was determined to get back on track.

‘Anyway, she has suddenly become rather accustomed to suspecting blood magic even among her own men,’ Cullen explained. ‘I daresay such thoughts are not unfounded, given what happened three years ago to the likes of Wilmod and Keran and others – and I suspect she was rather shaken by the recent revelations about Ser Conrad – but I have convinced her that with morale so low in the Order right now, this is not the right time to begin conducting regular secret raids on templar’s quarters and their private possessions. Meredith has shelved such plans. For now, at least.’

‘Ser,’ Carver began.

‘Knight Corporal.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘I am talking to all ranked officers about this,’ Cullen replied. ‘I fear that Meredith’s actions may potentially sow dissent and outrage in the Order, and rather unnecessarily. We will need to step in if the situation with our men and women gets out of hand.’

‘Right,’ Carver said.

‘I have heard murmurings that some templars are unhappy at Meredith’s conduct over this matter,’ Cullen continued. ‘Weekly questioning is one thing, but this is another matter entirely.’ Cullen leaned forward, and fixed Carver with an unblinking stare. ‘The Knight Commander is not entirely unreasonable, after what has happened with some of our templars. Vigilance is needed. But just as I have convinced her to drop her plans, I will need men like you to calm the ranks if it comes to it.’

‘Right, ser,’ Carver repeated.

‘Thank you.’ Cullen inclined his head in acknowledgement.

‘Was there anything else, Knight Captain?’

Cullen sighed, and rubbed both hands over his face. He looked more tired than when Carver had first entered his office. ‘Yes, there is,’ he answered, before exhaling another deep sigh. ‘There is no appropriate way to inform you of this, so I will merely say it. Your brother has reported that he found Ser Emeric dead in an alleyway in Lowtown.’

Carver went cold. ‘No. Tell me he didn’t – I didn’t know Garrett found – What happened, ser?’

Cullen looked at him, long and hard, before answering. ‘You honestly had no idea of this?’

‘No. I didn’t even know my brother had come to the Gallows. Or sent word, whichever he did.’

‘We retrieved the body,’ Cullen continued, ‘and confirmed it as Emeric. The alleyway in which we found him had remnants of a fight with demons.’ Cullen exhaled, and sat back in his chair. ‘The Knight Commander, as you’d expect, is deeply unhappy about this. Emeric may have been nearing retirement, but nonetheless, his death at the hands of a dangerous maleficar means that there is one still on the loose in Kirkwall, as Hawke did not manage to track down Emeric’s killer.’

‘How did my brother get mixed up in all this?’ asked Carver, more to himself than Cullen, but the latter answered him anyway.

‘It seems Emeric called upon him for help, having had no assistance from the city guard,’ Cullen replied. ‘The Knight Commander already tried to forbid Emeric from carrying on his investigations into some missing women – which even included the disappearance of one of our own Circle mages, Mharen, some years ago – especially after having to issue a most embarrassing apology on behalf of the Order to Gascard DuPuis, a noble in Hightown.’

Cullen placed his hands on the table in front of him. ‘Your brother killed Gascard DuPuis, from what I understand. It seems DuPuis was dabbling in blood magic after all, and attacked him inside his own estate.’

‘Bloody hell,’ was all Carver could respond. He’d had no idea of any of this. None at all.

‘And yet Hawke still thinks the serial killer is on the loose. He thinks DuPuis is not the killer of either of those women or Emeric, but that DuPuis knew something.’

‘We need to search the DuPuis estate,’ said Carver at once.

‘We have already,’ Cullen said, wearily. ‘We didn’t find anything that Hawke hadn’t already informed us of. Evidence of Hawke’s fight with demons and a mage, tomes on dark magic in the library, boxes of women’s clothing, vials of blood… I wonder how we missed them before. As you can imagine, Knight Commander Meredith is incredibly angry that the templars who conducted the initial search – before the death of either Ser Emeric or Gascard DuPuis himself – missed such obvious signs.’

‘I suppose if we can’t find out what DuPuis knew, or who he knew,’ began Carver, slowly, ‘we need to investigate further. There’s a killer and a maleficar on the loose. Who knows when he’ll strike again.’

‘Indeed,’ sighed Cullen. ‘If only our numbers weren’t so depleted. Meredith is not happy that Hawke was involved in the investigation, as she stopped all work with outsiders, fearing outside influence – but given what happened, I see that Emeric had no choice. I think even Meredith appreciates your brother’s efforts in helping the Order to date, even if she won’t admit it.’

 _Well, I’m sure she appreciates my brother’s donations at the very least_ , Carver wanted to say, but didn’t. While it was true that Garrett was the Chantry’s most generous donor – or so Grand Cleric Elthina had once told a surprised Carver, and Carver was pretty sure his brother had never had any interest anything the Chantry represented before he moved to Hightown – it was probably not a good idea to insinuate that Garrett Hawke might well be partially bribing anyone to look the other way.

Aloud, Carver merely said: ‘Well. Good to see my brother is making himself useful.’

‘Good to see you both are,’ Cullen answered, and Carver couldn’t be sure but there was something like – was that _pride?_ – in his eyes. ‘Good to see the new scions of the Amell family have returned to Kirkwall.’ His face took on a look of fond reminiscence. ‘I knew an Amell once. She was a very… special woman. I’ve never met her like again.’

‘Right,’ Carver said, determined to change the subject from his noble heritage, and Cullen blushed as if he’d revealed too much. ‘So. What’s the next step in finding Emeric’s killer?’

‘Well, that I haven’t decided yet,’ Cullen admitted. ‘We need to inform the rest of the Order first. You are off duty soon yourself?’

‘That’s right, Knight Captain.’

Cullen smiled wryly; he looked relieved to be discussing a less heavy subject. ‘Any interesting plans?’

‘Not much, ser. Just visiting my mother at the estate.’

‘Good,’ Cullen said, standing up. ‘I will see you again on your return,’ he added, as Carver stood up to make his way out of the office. ‘Dismissed, Knight Corporal. Maker be with you.’ 

***

‘Hawke!’ Varric beamed jovially at the sight of his friend entering his suite in the Hanged Man. ‘And Anders! What a wonderful surprise. Here for Diamondback, I take it?’

‘Of course,’ Hawke answered, grinning just as warmly back at the dwarf as Varric had given him. ‘Anything to pass the time for a few hours. Am I interrupting something?’

‘Me? No, Eleanor was just leaving,’ Varric said, nodding at a fierce-looking woman dressed in Coterie livery. ‘But I should introduce you. Eleanor, meet Hawke. Hawke, meet Eleanor.’

‘One of Varric’s Coterie contacts, I take it?’ Hawke asked, shaking her hand warmly.

Varric chuckled. ‘Actually, she’s my editor,’ the dwarf answered, and the woman glared as if in confirmation. ‘Don’t know where I’d be without her. She’s a stickler for grammar.’

Judging by the sharp daggers stowed on her back, she probably was.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ Hawke grinned; Eleanor didn’t smile back.

‘So, Hawke,’ Varric said, inspecting the sheets of written parchment spread on the table in front of him; his neat handwriting graced the pages and indicated to all in the room that it was probably the latest chapter of one of his serialised novels. Varric gathered them together and shuffled them into a pile, ordering them as he spoke. ‘What brings you here this evening?’

‘Oh, not much,’ Hawke shrugged. ‘My brother is visiting Mother at the estate, so I – well, _we_ – thought we’d make myself scarce.’

‘Right,’ Varric said with a knowing look, as he placed his hand lovingly on top of the pile of parchment in front of him; Anders leaned over to examine it with a curious expression on his face. ‘Merrill joining him, I take it?’

‘She is,’ confirmed Hawke, as Anders tried to sneak his arm across the table, eager fingers reaching for the paper sitting beneath Varric’s palm. Before he could retrieve any of the pages, Eleanor quickly stabbed the desk in front of him with a dagger, blocking his hand, glaring at him.

‘Hey!’ Varric exclaimed, as Anders jumped back in surprise. He turned to Eleanor, voice accusing, face almost hurt. ‘Watch it, Eleanor! You almost stabbed me in the book!’

‘You’ll probably need to cut some words from it anyway,’ Eleanor retorted, retrieving her dagger from the desk and gathering up the sheaf of papers Varric had handed her and stuffing them in her satchel. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

She shot another withering look at Hawke and Anders, and departed without so much as a nod. Varric exhaled in relief, if only because his manuscript was safe.

‘I have to say Blondie, you got me worried there,’ Varric sighed as he sat down; the other men followed suit. ‘Eleanor’s in a particularly bad mood tonight, for some reason. Some shit’s gone down at the Coterie, no doubt.’

‘I only wanted to have a peep at what it was you’d written,’ Anders said defensively, still reeling slightly from how close Eleanor had come to chopping off his fingers. ‘Was it one of your latest novels?’

‘Yep. Latest chapter of “The Templar And The Blood Mage” if you must know, Blondie. Which I thought you weren’t reading anymore, anyway?’

Anders wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘Guess not.’

‘Well, I’m glad Eleanor didn’t stab your hand,’ Varric continued, signalling Edwina in the doorway to bring them all drinks. ‘Or my manuscript. I don’t exactly pay her for a giant knife-wound in the body of the text.’

‘She’s supposed to be removing holes from the plot,’ agreed Hawke. ‘Not adding to them.’

Varric cackled, and even Anders managed a smile, despite how shaken he was. ‘Oh Hawke,’ Varric said good-humouredly, ‘I should be crushed that you think my plot is so full of holes that even Eleanor can’t sort them out, but right now I’m just glad that her dagger didn’t land in my book. Anyway, shall we start a game of Diamondback?’ 

***

‘Carver,’ Merrill asked, as she sat curled up in his lap while the templar stroked her hair, ‘did you like the roses I sent you?’

They were sat in a comfy armchair in the bedroom Bodahn had made up for both of them, undressed and in each other arms. Merrill had arrived that evening after Carver had spent the day with Leandra; right now the estate was quiet after they’d retreated upstairs, and Merrill had been grateful to see Carver again after a bad week in which none of her efforts on the eluvian had worked.

Merrill had turned up at the estate feeling despondent, but hoped against hope that there was one thing in her life she could be happy about. She knew Carver hated that they had to conduct their affair in secret as much as she did, but she appreciated that he was doing his best. Just for her.

Carver kissed her forehead before answering; Merrill closed her eyes and exhaled in pleasure at his touch. ‘I did. Thanks.’

‘Oh good,’ she said. ‘I’m glad. Aveline’s guards arrested me for them, you know, so I thought they must be worth it.’

‘Aveline’s guards arrested you–?’ Carver chuckled, shook his head, and carried on stroking Merrill’s hair. ‘Never mind. I wanted to talk to you about those roses, actually. I almost got in trouble over them, so… it’s probably better you didn’t send them…’

Shame washed through Merrill as she buried her face further into Carver’s neck. _You can’t do anything right_ , her voice jeered at her inside her head. _First you get arrested over some roses for your lover and get him into trouble, then you failed to fix the mirror after thinking you’d found the solution_. The fresh scar on her palm was testament to the latter, and Merrill could only be glad she’d been able to heal the cut before seeing her templar again.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she cried, once he’d finished explaining what happened. ‘I didn’t mean to get you into trouble. And the guards arrested me because I picked them from the viscounts’ gardens, but they were so pretty, and it turns out they weren’t even worth it after all.’

‘Hey,’ Carver said, turning his head to kiss her ear. ‘Don’t worry about it, Merrill. I _did_ appreciate it. Just… the templars don’t, that’s all.’

Merrill shyly lifted her head to look up at him; to her relief, he was smiling at her, blue eyes tender with affection, and Merrill’s breath caught in her throat. _He’s so handsome_ , she sighed dreamily in her head.

Before she could even think about it, his lips were on hers, she was cradling his face in her hands as he drew her even tighter to him; their mouths opened to let each other in and their tongues tangled in messy, sloppy intermingling. Carver grunted lustily and Merrill sighed; she felt desperation surge through her as his hands ran all over her body and she wanted, _needed_ him to be closer, to combine himself with her, to lose herself in him.

 _Take me, Carver_ , Merrill wanted to say. _Take as much as you can. Take me so hard I can’t even think about all the things I’ve done wrong this week_.

There was something desperate about him tonight too, as if he needed her as well; and Merrill didn’t know if she was ready yet to hear what was troubling him so much that he was trying to lose himself in her as much as she wanted to in him. He was disquieted, she could tell; being a templar in this city was bound to do that to him, but right now he only seemed to want to escape whatever he was feeling, to dive right into the sensations of sex and her body and her love, and that was _fine_ with Merrill because she wanted exactly the same.

‘I want to try it harder,’ Merrill gasped, her legs tangled around Carver’s torso; slender, smooth, glistening with sweat. Carver held her thighs firmly in his large hands, paused his gentle rocking motions, and surveyed the elf spread-eagled on her back on the bed before him: her smooth, silken skin shimmering in the candlelight; the tiny dip of her belly button just begging to be kissed; the shallow mounds of her breasts lying flat against her body, tiny pink nipple buds standing to attention; her short, dark hair tousled and fanning out on the pillow; her sweet, moist pussy _so_ _tight_ around his cock, the juices from her lightly swollen labia gently soaking the dark curls at the base of his erection. From where he was standing at the edge of the mattress, she was glorious.

‘I want to try it harder, _ma vhenan_ ,’ Merrill repeated, propping herself up on her elbows, eyes bright.

‘Yeah?’ Carver asked breathlessly. She had been so tight when he’d entered her – much tighter than usual – he was concerned she wouldn’t be ready for it. ‘Sure it won’t hurt?’

Merrill’s eyes shone with adoration. ‘You won’t hurt me, Carver.’

Carver wasn’t about to deny her anything she asked for. Especially not while he was inside her. Especially not while she was asking him for something (he was starting to realise, with a thrill of excitement) he actually quite wanted, himself. ‘OK, then,’ he finally said. ‘How much harder, beautiful?’

‘ _Much_ harder.’ Merrill relaxed back onto the bed, a dreamy expression on her face. ‘So hard that I scream.’

‘Right,’ Carver eventually managed, repositioning his grip on her body, ‘all right, then…’

He thrust into her, his erection throbbing with need; Merrill moaned as he thrust again, her legs wrapping round him and pulling him closer – a sign of how desperately her body wanted more; more of what he was giving to her.

‘Maker, Merrill,’ he choked out, voice dark, strained with lust, ‘… _Maker_.’

Steeling his resolve, Carver slammed into her.

Merrill gasped; her wide green eyes looked up at him in shock as he plunged again and again. _You asked for this_ , every sharp stroke of his taunted her as he sped up, _you wanted it_ … yet his blue eyes met her own with undisguised tenderness, reassuring Merrill that he only wanted to please her. She cried out as he slammed forcefully against her, his girth stretching her walls as he plunged relentlessly, again and again into her hole, his length driving deeper and deeper inside her each time. Merrill whimpered; whether in pain or pleasure (or both), Carver couldn’t tell – every ounce of strength in his body was focused completely and utterly on fucking her senseless.

Tears stung Merrill’s eyes; every hard slam of his cock _hurt_ , but it hurt _so good_ , so right. With each thrust, the sharp colliding against her each time, like storm waves crashing against the shore… oh, it _hurt so good_. With each swift jolt of his cock, she mewled meekly, torn between whether to pull away or pull him closer. Creators, but Carver was _strong_ ; he fucked her like an animal, grunting and groaning. Merrill moaned and writhed, but he held her firm, his grip as unyielding as his onslaught on her soft wet cunt.

Merrill cried out his name, seemingly in anguish, seemingly in tears – but it was the desire that burned in her eyes that undid him, and he yelled his own lusty cry. She whined, but her gorgeous cunt received him as willingly and enthusiastically as he was giving it to her.

‘More?’ Carver panted, wild now, shining with sweat, only just able to get the word out. Merrill’s pale, slender hands were grasping and twisting the bedsheets; her lithe body was quivering in excitement and arching beautifully in response to the onslaught down below.

‘More,’ she begged, almost sobbing, ‘oh, more, _vhenan_!’

To her confusion, he abruptly slowed, but it was only a momentarily reprieve; Merrill gasped raggedly when he rammed into her again, frenzied, fierce. She screamed out a cry while Carver pounded her pussy, making a _slick-slick-slick_ sound as he fucked her, harder and faster.

When Merrill came, she screamed again in pure ecstasy. Her walls contracted in time with her climax, and with her vagina enveloped so completely around his cock, Carver ejaculated with a roar, spilling his load deep into her cunt, claiming her pussy with his cum; claiming her again and again as he spurted on each thrust, holding her tight. Merrill could feel it gushing into her, could feel him filling her up, and she clamped her legs around his waist, screaming her cries of delight in time with each shockwave emanating from the epicentre of her loins to every tingling nerve-end she had. Her entire body convulsed around him as she rode out her orgasm on his slippery cock as he flooded her pussy… and Merrill loved every intoxicating second of it.

Carver pulled out of her when he was finally spent, when the aftershocks had finished rippling through both their bodies; his dick making a wet _slick_ sound as it did so. His semen dribbled out, white and thick against her wet pink pussy-lips. Carver took one shaky step back, giddily admiring the creampie he’d made, while Merrill lay there, exhausted, chest heaving, legs sprawled out awkwardly. The tips of her pointed ears were red, as were her cheeks; she could feel her lover’s seed oozing gently from her vulva, after having gobs and gobs of cum shot deep inside her. Her groin ached pleasantly with a full and heavy feeling; breathlessly and silently she enjoyed the sensation of their mingling fluids seeping out of her now-slightly-gaping hole, a delicious combination of his cum mixed with her pussy juices.

Carver collapsed into a nearby chair, completely out of breath, noting with satisfaction the scent of sex and sweat in the air. He gazed down proudly at his soaking cock, then at Merrill and her dripping pussy. _Mine_ , he thought, in his dazed bliss, _all mine_.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello at [hollyand-writes.tumblr.com](http://hollyand-writes.tumblr.com)!


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